Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

‘What problems you got, Rocky?’

Rocq looked cautiously around him to see if anyone was listening to him. They weren’t. Mozer and Slivitz were both engaged in shouting matches with clients who appeared to be on the other side of the world and stone deaf.

‘Coffee.’

The Italian emitted a low moaning that sounded like a bad attack of indigestion. ‘You too. How bad?’

‘Bad.’

‘Got to take the rough with the smooth, Rocky. I got the clap, you got the coffee.’

‘Want to swap?’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘What do you reckon it’s going to do?’

‘I hear the World Health Organization’s got a lot of hard evidence. It’s going to drop some more — whole lot more when that news breaks.’

‘When is it going to break?’

‘Couple of days, maybe. Week or two at the most.’

‘How much is it going to drop?’

‘Fifty for sure. Maybe one hundred. Could even go one hundred and fifty. It depends.’

‘So you’d advise going short?’

‘For sure, Rocky; you must go short.’

‘What price do you have on coffee at the moment?’

‘Four hundred and twenty-seven pounds sterling, September. You want the dollar price?’

‘Sterling’s fine. Okay, Theo, I want you to sell some coffee short for me.’ Rocq paused, and did some sums on his calculator. ‘Twelve thousand tons,’ he said, finally.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Barbiero-Ruche. ‘I’d have trouble selling 2,000, let alone 12,000.’ He paused. ‘I’ll call you back, Rocky — after I’ve rung The Producers Pact. They’re trying to support the market. Someone there owes me a favour.’ He rung off.

Five minutes later he was on the line again. ‘Okay, Rocky. 12,000 tons. It’ll be crossed on the market tomorrow. I’m going to have to ask you for margin, Rocky — too much for me to carry on my own.’

‘No problem, Theo,’ Rocq lied.

‘I’m going to need £512,000. Okay?’

‘Sure — I’ll tell my bank to send you a telegraphic transfer — soon as I get your confirmation.’

‘You’ll get that tomorrow.’

‘Okay — soon as I receive it, you’ll get your margin. Keep taking the tablets, fat man.’

‘Ciao.’

‘Ciao.’ Rocq replaced the receiver and breathed a sigh. He had a chance now. Somehow, he would have to fool Barbiero-Ruche into believing that the £512,000 margin was on its way. The Italian reckoned that coffee would drop within the week. If he could spin the Italian along until then, he could be out of the woods. Communications with Italy and internally in Italy were dreadful. Cables and telexes did frequently go astray. He just hoped that Barbiero-Ruche would keep that sell order for him and not liquidate it. He was going to have to rely on a mixture of their good friendship and bad communications.

He went and got himself a coffee and returned to his desk.

‘Was that your lunch hour — or did you have your dinner early?’ said Mozer sarcastically, leaning over to him.

‘No — I’ve been out trying to buy a deodorant strong enough for your breath.’

Mozer shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Alex: my breath may not be so fresh, but my work record smells a damned sight better than yours.’

‘Go back to your cave, Henry.’

They were interrupted by a clerk bringing a telex and placing it on Rocq’s desk. He stared at it, and all his anxieties came flooding back.

It was a confirmation from Theo Barbiero-Ruche, of his instructions to sell 12,000 tons of coffee at £427 in September. From tomorrow he would be legally bound to sell that coffee at that price. Five million and one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds. If coffee dropped, by at least £50, he would be fine — and if it dropped even more, he stood to make a substantial profit. If it rose, however, he would be adding a mighty further amount to his slate. He would have no option but to declare himself bankrupt. He re-read the confirmation once more. It didn’t make him feel any better.

Jean-Luc Menton awoke with a start, sweating heavily, to a noise that sounded like a dog being sick — except that he didn’t have a dog. As his brain focussed on reality, he knew without opening his eyes that the noise was from his girlfriend, Valerie, who always slept on her stomach, and half-suffocated against the pillow.

He slid his hand out and picked up his Casio digital watch.

‘ Merde ,’ he informed himself. He put the watch back, picked up a pack of Gauloises, shook a cigarette out, put it into his mouth, lit it with his Bic lighter and inhaled deeply. Then, with the cigarette still in his mouth, he jumped out of bed, and began pulling on his clothes.

The grunting gagging noises stopped and were replaced by Valerie’s deep voice. ‘ Quelle heure est-il? ’

‘Dix heures et demi.’

He ran into the bathroom, put the cigarette in the soap tray, chucked some cold water on his face, dried it, then replaced the cigarette. He pulled on his jacket, picked up a couple of packets of chewing gum from the sidetable, mumbled ‘Au revoir, à toute à l’heure,’ and dashed out of the apartment.

Menton knew that the Viscomte did not like to be kept waiting, and he was already an hour late, with a thirty-minute drive ahead of him. As he walked down the stairs, he thought back hard on the interview he had had with the Israeli, General Ephraim, on the beach at La Baule. He had no doubt that Viscomte Lasserre would require a very detailed account of Ephraim’s reaction.

He left the small modern apartment beside the old U-boat pens at St Nazaire harbour, walked over to his green Alfasud, climbed in and started the engine. He rammed the gear lever into first, and accelerated fiercely away; almost immediately, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in the base of his head.

‘Tournez à droite,’ said the man with the Walther automatic, in the back seat.

Menton arrived two hours late for his meeting with the Viscomte. He didn’t mention anything about the interlude with the man with the Walther. He was too scared.

At 3.15 that Tuesday morning, the green phone on General Isser Ephraim’s desk buzzed sharply. Ephraim picked up the receiver. It was Chaim Weisz, head of French operations for the Mossad. Ephraim took the piece of chewing gum from his mouth and placed it in the ashtray.

‘This man,’ said Weisz, ‘Jean-Luc Menton. We have some information.’

Baenhaker was feeling horny. It was a feeling that had persisted continually for about a week, and almost everything he did to turn his mind away from sex invariably brought him straight back to the subject. He read the newspapers and found himself turning with avid attention to any article that hinted of rape or divorce. He tried three novels in succession, to discover limbs and organs entwined, after only a few pages, in each one. He tried the television, the radio, and then he would give up for a while and would luxuriate in ogling the nurses in the ward.

He was slightly ashamed with himself that during the course of the week his standards of who he did and did not fancy among the nurses had lowered considerably. Last Friday, he had decided that there were only two he fancied, and that the rest were extremely unattractive. By Saturday, four of them he decided were passable and by Sunday, six. It was now Tuesday morning, and he decided that even one of the elderly cleaning women didn’t look too bad.

He tried to figure out exactly for how long it was that he had been in here: he knew it was about three weeks, but he wanted to be more precise. The day of the accident was still a blank. He could remember only having gone to stay with a male friend at Bristol university that weekend, and playing chess much of the time; it was a game of chess that had caused him not to leave on the Sunday and stay over until the Monday; but he could not remember actually leaving.