Bobby Adair - Ebola K

And with that question, Najid knew the deal was done. The rest was a matter of running through the pretense so that Zameer would be able to sleep with a clean conscience. Najid said, “I know exactly how much.”

“It won’t matter,” Zameer answered. “He will have me killed before I have a chance to spend any of it.”

“I told you. You’ll have his permission before our special friends board their planes. I merely pay you now for expediting the process.”

“Time is that important?” asked Zameer.

“It is.”

“American money?”

“Yes,” Najid replied flatly.

Zameer confirmed the only real detail. “To have them in the airport at Lahore, we would have to leave tonight.”

“You are being compensated for just such inconveniences,” Najid answered.

“I don’t know.”

Najid had other calls to make. “Yes, you do. Don’t haggle with me. Take the money or I’ll call someone else who will. I do not threaten, but I must have this done today. You know as well as I that the next person I call may not have your degree of moral certitude. He may shed his morals and put a bullet in your skull to get his hands on that money. You, my friend, will make sure that this is handled as we discussed, with his blessing.”

Rattled, Zameer said, “I will do it.”

“You will need to act quickly to get our special friends down from the mountains and to the airport in Lahore. The first flights leave at noon. Do not be late.”

Christoph Degen sat in the summer sun on the balcony of a room he’d rented for an amount that would seem obscene to the average Swiss man or woman. Those thoughts bothered him from time to time, but Zermatt—one of the most beautiful little mountain towns in the world—filled the valley below the hotel. Green mountains rose to the right and left and framed the Matterhorn in picturesque perfection down past the other end of the valley.

From where he sat he could see part way down the main road through Zermatt. He’d watched his wife and two daughters stroll the street, gawking in windows as they started their day of shopping. They were happy. He was happy. Summer holidays in Zermatt were magical.

And then the phone rang. Degen took the phone from his pocket as it rang the second time, saw who it was, and his vacation time—for the moment—became irrelevant. “Good afternoon, Mr. Almasi.”

“Mr. Degen,” Najid Almasi answered.

“What can I do for you today?”

“What is the value of my father’s portfolio?”

“It will take me a moment to pull up that information on my computer.” Degen walked back into his room and sat at his desk. His laptop sat open where he’d left it. In a condescending tone, Degen added, “You are aware that you can access this information from your computer.”

“As can you.” Najid was used to the way many Europeans still talked to Arabs, as if they weren’t educated at the same schools. “Tell me the number when you have it.”

Najid heard the sound of fingers on a keyboard, a pause, and then Degen’s voice. “Seven hundred and thirty-seven million in US dollars. Do you need the exact amount?

“I need you to liquidate the portfolio.”

“Mr. Almasi. I don’t think—”

“Stop.” Najid said it harshly enough to cow Degen immediately. “Before you go on, you are aware that I have complete control of my father’s portfolio?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that I may do whatever I see fit with this portfolio?” Najid could be very abrupt when he wanted something—when he needed something.

“You are the client, Mr. Almasi. Whatever you wish. However, as your financial advisor, it is my duty to advise you in these matters.”

Najid’s patience was already worn thin by previous conversations. “In this matter I do not need advice. I need expeditious action to follow my instructions.”

“You do understand that liquidating your portfolio will result in losses on some of your investments. If you’d allow me some time—”

Najid was tiring of the interaction. Degen’s was one of a dozen calls he had to make. “I do not have time today to convince you to do what I ask you to do. Will you do it, and do it now?”

Degen didn’t answer immediately. He was evaluating his options, or so Najid figured. Either Degen would do as Najid wished, or his superior at the bank would. “I can liquidate most of it. Some of your father’s portfolio is traded in foreign markets and cannot be liquidated until those markets open.”

“I understand.”

“Shall I leave the proceeds in your account or transfer them to another bank? You understand that for transfer, it is not necessary to sell.”

“That is not my purpose. How much of the portfolio can you convert to gold and silver?” Najid had already thought the problem through and had a plan to financially position his family well for the expected outcome.

“Gold stocks are on the upswing, with the Ebola epidemic in Africa driving—”

“You misunderstand, Mr. Degen. Listen carefully. Convert the entire portfolio to cash. Retain thirty million in cash in the account, as I will be drawing on that amount in large transactions. I’ll expect that those transactions will come through you personally, and you will see that they are paid as quickly as possible.”

“And the rest?”

“Convert it to physical gold and silver—I want at least seventy percent in gold. The gold and silver are to be delivered to my father’s compound by noon, three days from now. Earlier if possible. Precious metals that cannot be in my father’s compound by that deadline, do not purchase.”

Degen gasped. “I understand that you fear the Ebola outbreak, Mr. Almasi, but this step is not necessary.”

Najid thought about scolding the man, but chose another tack. “My father is an old man. He doesn’t understand the modern world. This is his wish. Like you, I carry out his instructions without question. Without question .”

“But the losses—the expense of physically transferring all of that gold?”

“Pay what is necessary to get the gold to my father’s compound before noon, three days from now.”

“It will be expensive.”

“I understand. You will also raise a hundred million in cash, or as much as you can by selling in-the-money call options. I want American-style options that expire in ninety days.”

The breath flowed out of Degen in an audible rush.

“You will make commission on this?”

“Yes, Mr. Almasi,” replied Degen uncomfortably.

“You will make an enormous sum, will you not?”

“I will.”

Najid said, “Then smile when you look in the mirror, as you profit from the ignorance of a man with too much money.”

Degen wondered which ignorant man Najid was talking about, himself or his father? “Mr. Almasi, may I speak for a moment?”

“Quickly.”

Degen took a moment and proceeded in a calm, measured voice. “Despite the epidemic, the market has been bullish all year. Selling these call options means that as the prices of the underlying securities rise over the next three months, your losses will mount. The analysts at our firm assured me on a conference call just this morning that the trend will remain positive. With the losses you’ll take in converting the accounts into physical gold and silver bullion, and the potential losses that you’ll incur in a rising market, your father’s total portfolio could sink to a fraction of its current value.”

“Mr. Degen, thank you for your counsel. One thing we must both keep in mind as we carry out my father’s wishes is that this is his fortune. You do not have a fortune. You have not earned one. Neither have I. My father did, through shrewd choices. Perhaps it is you and I who are being foolish by questioning his judgment.”