Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

‘I don’t know politically — but the price of gold will go through the roof.’

‘Good boy,’ said Elleck. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot in one.’

‘Does Missh know about all this?’

‘Not a thing. And he won’t. Even if he were to find out, he’s got no option but to keep his trap shut. Because of the delicate political situation in the United Arab Emirates, there isn’t a Western country who will dare support him. Russia and Libya and the other anti-West Arab states have been courting him like mad, but both Missh and his father are fundamentally pro-West. Libya and Russia did help them originally gain independence, but since then they have been busy shaking off these countries. I think they are hoping that one day a reconciliation with the West can be made — although of course the Russian propaganda machine has always played up the original bond between Amnah and Libya, and continues to do so at every opportunity.’

Rocq nodded. ‘So you want me to start buying gold for all my clients as fast as I can go?’

‘No,’ said Elleck, ‘that is precisely what I do not want you to do. Gold is at the moment depressed — today’s price is $494 an ounce. I want the price to stay as low as possible. I have a syndicate comprising the key people behind this whole business in Amnah. Between them, they have committed to the syndicate sufficient funds to buy £1,000 million worth of gold.’

Rocq whistled.

‘Buying that amount of gold in one place, in any one day, would be enough to push the price up $10 to $20; but we don’t want to do that. We want to keep it very, very quiet. During the next week I want you to buy that billion pounds worth, but I want you to spread your buying as much around the world as you possibly can. Don’t buy more than a few bars in any one market, from any one dealer. And don’t start until Monday morning of next week — between now and then I’m going to quietly buy a few ounces for myself.’

‘Now in return for doing this, and for keeping your silence, the syndicate will pay you a commission rate of .05 per cent on all the gold you buy, and .05 per cent when you sell. On £1,000 million, your commission when you buy will come to £500,000. When you sell, hopefully gold will have risen from four twenty to six hundred, maybe higher. That £1,000 million will have risen about thirty per cent — to say £1,350 million; .05 per cent of that will be £675,000 — giving you a total of £1,175,000 — enough to clear your debts, and give you £100,000 on top. Does that sound reasonable?’ Rocq nodded his head; it sounded reasonable enough. Anything, right now, would have sounded reasonable enough.

‘The name of the syndicate,’ said Elleck, ‘is “Goldilocks.” An account has been opened for the syndicate here at Globalex, under the name “Goldilocks.”’

‘Someone has a sense of humour,’ said Rocq.

Elleck raised his glass. ‘To your good health.’

Rocq raised his. ‘To Goldilocks. But not the three bears — let’s hope for three bulls.’

‘Goldilocks and the three bulls,’ said Sir Monty Elleck.

It was 7.00 when Rocq staggered out of the elevator into the lobby of 88 Mincing Lane. He was aware that he was completely plastered; he was also aware that he had promised to collect Amanda at 6.00 sharp from her office to go to a preview at the Mayor Gallery in Cork Street. A taxi came down Mincing Lane with its ‘For Hire’ sign illuminated. Rocq put up his hand. The taxi slowed and stopped, and Rocq staggered towards it; he put a hand on the bonnet to steady himself, then leaned in through the front window. ‘I want to — shgo — er — I shwant to shgo — er — schback of Harrods.’

‘I’m not taking you in that state, mate — clear off.’ The taxi accelerated down the street, leaving Rocq in a cloud of black diesel fumes.

‘Fucking bastard,’ he yelled, squinting hard to focus. He went and sat down on the doorstep of 88. A wave hit him, and he wasn’t sure whether it was nausea or tiredness. His head was swimming and he felt he was about to pass out; he pushed his eyelids hard together, just leaving a tiny gap; in that manner, he found he could focus and see what traffic was coming down the street. Somewhere, deep inside his drink-riddled body, he felt a good feeling surging up; it had seemed a long time since he had felt good, and he was enjoying the feeling. He had sunk, and he had hit rock bottom. Now he was on the way up.

Somewhere, alongside the good feeling, something else was hatching deep inside him. He knew he wasn’t in any fit state to figure out the finer details right now, but the germ of an idea was there and he knew, instinctively, that the idea was good. He looked forward to sobering up, and to thinking about it more clearly.

‘Good evening, sir.’

Rocq looked up from the doorstep at the uniformed Retired Sergeant-Major ‘Sarge’ Bantry, Globalex’s live-in security guard and night-watchman.

‘Shevenig Sssharge.’

‘You’re going to need a banjo and collection box if you stay there much longer, sir.’

‘Shink I’m going to need one anyway.’

‘Think a good night’s sleep will do yer no harm,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll get you a cab.’

‘Shank you Sarge.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Rocq.’

‘I shink I have had a bit — er — shoo mug ter drink.’

‘Doesn’t do any harm now and again, sir.’

‘Schno — sure you’re right.’

The offices of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt were at 124 Lower Thames Street, about 400 yards from 88 Mincing Lane. Behind the brilliantly polished, but bullet-proof, windows of the Adam-designed house were the offices from which Eisenbar-Goldschmidt conducted its £400 million reinsurance business with Lloyds, reimbursing the companies within Lloyds’ hallowed halls on claims on which they had to stump up, ranging from house burglaries, car crashes, skiing accidents, burned out warehouses, shipwrecks, aeroplane disasters, village fetes wiped out through rain, wrong organs removed by surgeons, and a million other items.

The offices looked much like any other city offices. Being in an old house, they were tastefully furnished with plenty of period furniture, some genuine, some reproduction; Victorian prints in simple frames adorned the walls, interspersed with photographs of Concorde, a supertanker, several factories, two high-rise buildings, and Manchester United football club. Part of the reinsurance on all of these was covered by Eisenbar-Goldschmidt.

E-G had offices in many of the world’s capital cities; the controlling shareholder in the firm, although not a widely publicized fact, was the Israeli government. In London, as elsewhere, unknown to most of the staff, the building was also used by Mossad agents as a safe-house.

In a sound-proofed basement office, at nine o’clock Wednesday morning, Daniel Baenhaker picked up the receiver of the direct telephone line to the switchboard of the Mossad, at its Tel Aviv headquarters, the moment it rang.

‘Good morning,’ came Ephraim’s voice through the earpiece.

‘Good morning,’ replied Baenhaker.

‘Still in one piece? Nothing fallen off you since we spoke?’

‘I’m in one piece.’

‘Good. Have you heard of a French company called Lasserre Industriel?’

‘Armaments manufacturers? Also make aircraft?’

‘Correct. Their chairman is a Viscomte Lasserre.’

‘I’ve heard of him, too.’

‘Have you heard of a Greek arms dealer, name of Jimmy Culundis?’

‘Didn’t he supply anti-tank guns to the Egyptians during the Six-Day War?’

‘And just about everything else that they couldn’t get.’

‘I’ve heard it rumoured that in the event of war between the US and Russia, they’d both be buying their spare parts and ammunition from him.’