Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

‘All I’ve got to do is this — look — like this!’ Slivitz twirled the cube excitedly in his hand; there was a sudden sharp snap and the cube fell apart, showering multi-coloured blocks across his desk and onto the floor. ‘Oh, shit!’ he shouted, at the top of his voice, ‘Oh, shit!’

Rocq’s intercom buzzed. ‘Yes?’

It was the receptionist: ‘Your eleven o’clock appointment is here. Will you see him in an interview room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Room 4 is free.’

‘Okay — I’ll be right out.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve got another big one,’ he said, rubbing it into Slivitz’s misery as he scrabbled underneath his chair to pick up the pieces.

‘It’s probably some one-legged old bat who’s just won five hundred quid on the Bingo, and wants you to make her fortune for her.’

‘No, Slivitz — those are all reserved for you.’

Rocq walked out of the office. There was a rotation system among the brokers for handling new accounts: if a new client did not specify the broker he or she required, then it went around in turn. Rocq had tipped the balance more than slightly in his favour, by tipping the receptionist with some delicate trinket from Asprey’s or Garrard’s for each decent account he landed. If she ever passed him one-legged widows, it was only because they were very, very rich.

He walked through into the fourth-floor reception, with his standard smile firmly on his face, and marched straight up to Baenhaker, briefly studied his pock-marked face, thin dark hair, smart blue suit with dandruff on the shoulders, garish tie and scuffed shoes. He noticed a scar above Baenhaker’s right eye. He summed him up right away as someone who thought he was a whizz-kid, but probably didn’t have the authority in his company to go to the bathroom without permission.

‘Good morning, Mr Bernstein. I’m Alex Rocq.’

‘How do you do, Mr Rocq.’

‘Come this way.’

Rocq led him into a small, functional office, overlooking Mincing Lane. Vertical blinds kept out the brightest of the June sun’s rays, and the air-conditioning kept out the heat. In spite of his hangover, Rocq was feeling tired, but very happy. He’d called Motortune at nine that morning, and discovered they had a 911 Turbo Porsche almost identical to his previous one, in stock as a result of a cancelled order. The banker’s draft from Globalex was in his wallet and he was going to collect the car at lunchtime. He had got up early, and before leaving home had put telephone calls through to Milan, to Theo Barbiero-Ruche, to Umm Al Amnah, to Sheik Missh, and to several other members of his ‘A’ team.

The interview room was designed to make clients feel at ease. At one end was a pair of two-seat chesterfields, facing each other, where they could sit and talk relaxedly. At the other end was a flat mahogany table, with two pairs of reproduction Queen Anne dining chairs facing each other. The idea was that business should be negotiated over the table, then sealed over a drink in the chesterfields.

They sat at the table. ‘How can we be of help to you?’ asked Rocq.

‘We want to expand our investment portfolio in this country. So far we are only in blue chips. We feel now it is time to — er — play with a little racing money. We are looking for a firm with whom we can work, and one we can trust. We are a Jewish firm, so are you. We are interested in metals — you are among the leading metal brokers. It is natural to start here.’

Rocq nodded.

‘We require, first, a great deal of information about your company. We are very choosey about whom we do business with — although we are sure your credentials will be in order.’ Baenhaker managed a weak smile.

‘I am sure you will find so,’ said Rocq. ‘May I first ask you the size of the investment you are intending?’

‘We have approximately £40 million sterling allocated for this at the present time. I trust that will be sufficient to open an account?’

‘Yes,’ said Rocq, after a short pause for air. ‘Quite sufficient.’ Normally, the cash register in his brain would have begun totting up his potential earnings from commissions from an account of such a size. But there was something about this man, Bernstein, that didn’t quite add up to Rocq. Rocq was no stranger to people discussing sums of money the size of telephone numbers, and he had long since been able to determine when someone was genuine and when someone, as he put it, was bullshitting. He was already convinced that the man across the table was a time-wasting bullshitter; but he had no option but to hear him out.

‘The first thing that I would need from you is a full client list.’

‘That is quite impossible — we never divulge our clients.’

Baenhaker stared across the table at Rocq. Rocq was in a double-breasted Lanvin blazer, a blue-striped shirt with white collar, plain navy silk tie, elegant grey trousers, and polished black loafers with the much-copied green-and-red Gucci colour-band across the instep. Baenhaker wasn’t an expert on Gucci shoes, but he knew these were not a copy. When he had stepped out of Austin Reed’s this morning, Rocq was the sort of person he had hoped he looked like: genuine preppy. He studied Rocq’s face: it was good-looking, slightly boyish, emphasized by his slightly long, schoolboy-style black hair which continually slipped down onto his forehead. He had quick blue eyes, a short, straight nose and a slightly arrogant mouth. His well-cut blazer hung from his shoulders correctly, as did his collar sit round his neck correctly, as was his tie equally correctly knotted. He looked exactly how a successful young man ought to look. He was everything Baenhaker hated, because he was everything Baenhaker wanted to be and never was. What aggravated Baenhaker further was that he knew Rocq had the measure of him. He was aware that he had an uphill struggle ahead. He paused for some moments and then spoke.

‘I’m afraid, Mr Rocq, if you wish to have our business, then you will have to divulge your client list. You see, we are very particular about whom we get into bed with. If, for instance, you had any Arab clients, we would have to think very carefully, very carefully indeed.’

Rocq thought about the £40 million and the slim chance that Bernstein might be genuine: he didn’t want to throw that away. On the other hand, he sensed trouble with this man. He decided it wasn’t worthwhile lying; throw the cards down face up, he decided, and give everyone the chance to get out before the betting starts. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Bernstein, we do have a number of Arab clients; many of them have sums invested through us that are very considerably greater than the amount you have mentioned. Perhaps it would be better if I did not waste any more of your valuable time.’

Baenhaker was beginning to feel extremely foolish, and very annoyed with himself. As far as he was concerned, he had always been a good agent, and had always taken the trouble to do his homework carefully. Today, his homework had been done in less than an hour. He had been under the impression that £40 million was enough money to have gained him, if he had wanted it, an immediate audience with the chairman of Globalex; now he realized it didn’t even rate him a cup of morning coffee with this underling. He had been rushed and he hated being rushed; he liked to work at his own pace, without pressure of time. He knew he should have surveyed all the brokers in the firm, watched them carefully, studied their habits, before picking on the one that looked the weakest, and then either softened him up with booze, or gone for blackmail. He had blown it with this one, he knew. He had put him on his guard, and it was going to be difficult to get him to drop that guard.

‘The reputation of your firm is sufficient,’ said Baenhaker, ‘that we may be prepared to waive the fact that you have Arab clients.’