A Road Not Taken

A Road Not Taken | Risk & Insurance | One's life trajectory, it is said, pivots on a small number of key moments. Mine certainly has. This is the story of one of them.

By Roger Crombie

London, circa 1973. I was working in a merchant bank, which is what gentlemen used to call investment banks, some of which we now call memories. Getting around town was no easier then than it is now, but I had the answer: a "monkey bike."

It looked like a toy motorbike, but had a 50cc engine. It went really fast from zero to 30, but needed a following wind and a long downhill straight to reach 35. Who cared? It moved when everything else in London was standing still.

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One day, one of the bankers came to see me with an urgent problem. He had £23 million--then worth about $55 million, now maybe $100 million--in bearer bonds, which had to be delivered to another bank halfway across town by close of business, i.e. in 45 minutes. Could I and my little bike get the bonds there in time?

You bet we could. Monkey see, monkey ride.

I signed for the yellow envelope and took off like a bat out of hell. I worked out that my best route took me near Heathrow Airport. Then it crossed my mind that I was holding bearer bonds. They are, as far as I know, the property of whoever has them in his hands. They were in my hands.

I can recall in close detail the thought process that followed. From Heathrow, I could fly to Brazil, which lacked an extradition treaty with the UK. I'd be in the air before anyone knew that I wouldn't be delivering the bonds that day, or any other day. Take the money and run. A detour to collect my passport, a dash out to Heathrow, and 24 hours later, made for life. In Brazil.

The downside: I could never return to the UK or see my family and friends again. Then, too, the bank, miffed, might send ugly, insistent fellows after me. That I had covered. $55 million buys an awful lot of security. I envisaged myself living in what we now call a gated community. Just me, a swimming pool, a murderously loyal security detail and hot and cold running babes.

The fantasy was so real I could almost taste it. I'd never been to Brazil, but with enough money, it doesn't matter where you are; it all tastes sweet.

When I reached as close to the airport as my route to the bank would take me, I stopped, parked, and smoked a cigarette. In retrospect, I probably knew exactly what I was going to do next, but at that moment, I was still considering my options.

I dropped the bonds off at the bank five minutes early.

Did I do what was right because it was the right thing to do? Or did I do it because I'm chicken? I wish it were the former, but let's face it, I'm poultry.

I have never doubted the decision I made. And though I have remained a nobody ever since, I have never had to look over my shoulder or worry when the doorbell rang. Well, almost never.

It must take a very special kind of person to steal a life. I guess I'm not that person. As a banker, of course, I should have taken the bonds as a bonus and not thought twice about it.

ROGER CROMBIE is a Bermuda-based columnist for Risk & Insurance®.

April 1, 2009

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