THE MAN FROM THE EAST END OF LONDON
“We must make at least 60 mergers and acquisitions annually,” says Amanda Ridgeway, a tall, blond woman with ocean-blue eyes, who sounds like a BBC newscaster. She leans towards Nigel Stevenson and looks into his face.
“ Our goal is to be the number one bank in the world,” she confides.
“The experience I’ve gained from working in banks in three countries will achieve that,” Nigel convinces her.
“Tea? Coffee?” she offers.
“Tea, please.” He sips the orange-flavored Bergamot Tea and looks confident. He has traveled from London to interview for the position of chief financial officer with the bank boasting branches in 78 countries. Amanda scans his gray-striped, well-tailored suit that hangs perfectly on his trim, medium size-frame. His premature silver hair makes him look older that his forty- four years.
He notices her navy suit hugs her lean body, and the short skirt and same color shoes give generous exposure to her shapely, tanned legs.
“I’m offering you the position of CFO for North America.”
“I’ll do everything to actualize your goals,” Nigel assures her.
“I’d like you to attend my weekly forecast at two o’clock.”
“Yes, I’ll come back,” he says and walks to the window.
From the 35th floor of the skyscraper that houses offices for some multinational corporations and a consulate, he looks over the City of Buffalo. Buildings designed by famous architects are clues of the wealth Buffalo enjoyed 100 years ago. With its manufacturing gone, the city is now so poor, the torches on the two Statues of Liberty atop a nearby building seem to be flashing SOS signals. He descends the elevator, exits the building into the 10-degree February day.
The wind wraps his London Fog coat around his legs, and the swirling snow bandages the light poles. The Metro train clangs to a stop and he climbs aboard. He gets off two stops later, walks into the FBI Building and hands an envelope to a waiting agent.
After an hour, he walks back into the bank. Just as the bell from the stone cathedral bongs twice, he enters the boardroom and sits beside Amanda.
“This is Nigel Stevenson, our new CFO for North America. He’s worked at Lloyd’s of London, Banks in Hong Kong, and The Hague,” she tells the attentive group. After her forecast, the room empties and she e-mails her reports.
“Amanda!” he commands and she looks up.
“Twenty years ago… you were… Sylvia Bromley,” he says, removing his horn-rim glasses and silver
wig.
Her face freezes with shock.
“Ron … Spencer?”
“Yeah! Ronnie from the East End of London. The bloke you said wouldn’t amount to anythin’. I’m now chief of detectives for the European Union!”
“No!” she gasps.
Just then, three police officers enter the boardroom.
“Amanda Ridgeway – also known as Sylvia Bromley you’re under arrest for embezzlement and murder,” one informs her.
“Lloyd’s claims you’d your sticky fingers in the till. Asian banks charge you siphoned off millions through acquisitions. An’ three of their CFOs croaked from poison,” adds the detective.
“Lies!”
“We matched your DNA from your napkin. You’ll be extradited to England, “ he smiles and clicks handcuffs on her.
Ten days later, flanked by plain-clothed British Police, they climb about a 747.
“You’re in the first class section,” says a flight attendant. The detective sits beside the prisoner. After dinner and the movie are over, little popping sounds escaping from her closed lips tell him she’s in a deep sleep. He listens to the plane droaning through the night. He’s in the world alone. This is how he always feels when he’s with Sylvia Bromley. He clicks off the overhead light.
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