Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

Thirty seconds on the intercom to the accounts departments told Elleck the name and branch of Rocq’s personal bank. Two minutes later, he was talking on the telephone to one of the directors of the bank, in his office in Cannon Street. Eight minutes later the director called him back: Rocq was hocked to the eyeballs for £102,000. Elleck thanked him, assured him he’d be the first person to receive the next hot tip he came across, and hung up. Rocq now owned only £500,000 worth of coffee, but he was contracted to buying £1,042,000 worth. Rocq would shortly be receiving a margin demand for another £400,000, and that was if coffee didn’t drop any more.

Elleck pinched his nostrils together and blew hard; his ears always popped in aeroplanes. They bumped through a series of air pockets and he heard the engines change pitch a couple of times, as Hopkins lined them up for the landing approach. He’d looked at Rocq’s position at midday; by the close of play, coffee had dropped to £420 a ton; that meant Rocq’s margin call by the end of the day would have stood at about £480,000. For a man hocked to the eyeballs, that was a lot of long green ones to stump up in a hurry; it was a lot of long green ones to stump up at all. Elleck smiled to himself.

The first thing that had happened this morning was that all the smart boys in coffee had tried to go short. It was the rush to sell short that had contributed to coffee’s rapid decline to its £420 figure. But Elleck knew from experience that the situation would change. During the next few days the World Health Organization would clarify their views, doctors for and against would be on every news show, talk show and documentary for the next fortnight, and the newspapers would be stuffed full of arguments. Slowly, a general opinion would emerge: as bad as was feared, not so bad, or worse. Whichever way it shifted, coffee, which had overnight become the most volatile substance in the world, would shift too — in leaps and bounds. Fortunes had been lost on coffee; but Elleck knew full well that during the weeks to come, equally great, if not greater, fortunes would be made on the stuff by those that had the money to stay in the game.

As soon as Elleck had got his information on Rocq, he had summoned the Honourable James Rice up to his office.

‘I presume Alex Rocq has spoken to you about his coffee position?’ Rice hesitated, wondering whether his boss might be trying to trap him into something. ‘What do you mean, Sir Monty?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, James, you must know what I mean. Rocq bought £1 million worth of coffee through you last Monday. Surely it hasn’t failed to escape your attention that there have been one or two adverse articles about this particular substance in the newspapers during the past twenty-four hours?’

Rice felt faintly silly; he was friendly with Rocq, but not so friendly that he was prepared to draw the wrath of his boss to defend him. ‘Well, he’s concerned, Sir Monty — very concerned, I’d say.’

‘What’s he doing about it?’

‘Trying to go short.’

‘Along with the rest of the world?’

Rice shook his head. ‘No. Most people seem to be giving up and sitting tight; there are no buyers for the stuff at any price — haven’t been any since about eleven o’clock. Hasn’t been a short market at all today — those that did get out either went into cash or other commodities. A lot of people did go short very early, but they pushed the price down so rapidly that even the wide-boys got nervous.’

‘Did Rocq go short?’

‘No — he hasn’t yet — I think he’ll wait a day or two — that’s what I’ve advised him. You know what these medical scares can be like — doctors seem to change their minds on things every few months. Cholesterol used to be bad for you; then they discovered not enough cholesterol is worse than too much. I’m not saying it’ll be the same here, but who knows.’

Elleck nodded in agreement. ‘I trust Rocq will get his margin call today — along with everyone else?’

‘It’s on the computer — along with everyone else’s,’ nodded Rice.

‘Has he said anything about it?’

‘Well — he won’t receive it for probably another hour, Sir Monty.’

‘No, I know he won’t have received it yet — but he must know he’s going to. He hasn’t said anything at all?’

‘Well,’ again Rice hesitated, ‘he wants me to have lunch with him — tomorrow.’

‘And if he brings up the business of the margin then?’

‘Rules are rules — I can’t do anything about them, can I, Sir Monty?’

‘I’m pleased with your work for this company, James. You have a good future here, a very good future indeed.’

‘Thank you, Sir Monty.’

‘I would offer you a cup of — er coffee — but I imagine you probably have more than you need right now anyway.’

Rice grinned and Elleck stood up. ‘Thank you for coming up to see me, James — and — er, by the way — if young Alex does mention this margin business to you — I’d — er, I’d be very grateful if you would let me know.’

‘Do you think he will, sir?’

‘Four hundred and eighty thousand pounds is a lot of money,’ said Elleck.’

‘I’ll let you know, Sir Monty.’

‘Thank you, James.’

The wheels of the Mitsubishi bumped down onto the grass, lifted up, and then settled down; the plane roared as the pilot reversed the engines. Elleck smiled to himself. He had Rocq by the balls, and he had a feeling that to have a person of Rocq’s calibre, and in Rocq’s position, by the balls was, right now, not at all a bad thing.

The Citroen Pallas swept out of Bordeaux airport and onto the Libourne road. Although it was a clear summer’s evening and in spite of the falling dusk it was still quite light, the chauffeur was having great difficulty in seeing, because of the incessant clouds of Upman corona smoke which blew over his head from the back seat, and cascaded down in front of his eyes.

He turned the air conditioning fan on full blast and slid the windows up and down a few times, but the plump greasy man in the back seat did not seem to get the message. Jimmy Culundis was deep in thought; he sat with his eyes closed, cigar jammed in his mouth, drawing in and belching out smoke at evenly spaced intervals of eight seconds.

Culundis was in a good mood; the few people that knew him well found it hard to tell when he was in a good mood, because he always appeared cheerful, regardless of his mood. His business with Missh in Umm Al Amnah had been concluded in much less time than he had thought, and he had been able to fly to France on the Sunday, watch his horse, Guided Missile, win the Arc de Triomphe at Longchamps by fourteen lengths, and still get back to Athens in time to spend Sunday evening with his wife and seven children.

Culundis led a dual life, which he enjoyed, and which seemed, for him, to work. He was still married to Ariane, the fisherman’s daughter from the village where he was born. He had only known her as a child when he was in his teens, but he had spotted her one day when he had returned to his village to visit his elderly parents, and had married her. She was pretty and homely, and not interested in a jet-set lifestyle, although she was happy to entertain any of the friends or colleagues that Culundis brought home. She had not wanted a grand house, and so, for their home, Culundis had bought a modest house, although fitted with almost every luxury money could buy, overlooking the fishing port where they had both been born.

Whilst he did business and played in the most expensive pastures of the world, Ariane was happy to remain in Greece, with the children. Although he saw her, on average, less than one evening a week, still, after seventeen years of marriage, he looked forward to those evenings at the one residence he owned, among all the others, that he called his home.