Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

Sir Monty Elleck had spent the most twitchy day of his life. The threatening words of Viscomte Lasserre had hung over him like a funeral shroud. It had never occurred to him that by mixing with those in the killing business he could ever be in a position where he could become a victim himself, and he didn’t like the feeling. He was annoyed with himself, too, for he had missed out on the chance to make a personal fortune on the rise in gold over the past few days. He had deliberately held back on buying for the syndicate because he had wanted to buy a few million pounds’ worth for himself first, to cash in on the rise he knew the syndicate’s buying and subsequent activities ought to have produced: but then, when gold had begun to rise on its own accord, on the strength of a whole mixed bag of rumours, he had held back, waiting for a drop. No drop had come, not until 4.15 that Tuesday afternoon; not until the full £1000 million committed by the syndicate had been spent.

Elleck had decided not to put money in himself after all. The rise was too high, far too high, for his liking. Even though he felt it probably would go higher still on the news that was to come from Israel and from Umm Al Amnah in the morning, he had been at the game long enough to know when to keep his chips off the table. He was going to make a handsome enough profit out of commissions from just handling the deal: he didn’t need to take any risks himself. He smiled. Let Lasserre and Culundis be on the hook; they could afford it.

When Rocq had buzzed him to tell him the final amount of the thousand million had been spent, at 4.45, Elleck buzzed his secretary and asked her to get him Viscomte Lasserre.

Two minutes later she buzzed him back. ‘I can’t get through, Sir Monty,’ she said. ‘All the lines are engaged.’

‘Keep trying, will you, Jane?’

‘Yes, Sir Monty.’

The anger he had felt at the time the Viscomte had passed the thinly veiled threat to him welled up in him again, only much stronger now. He thought of the elegant but weak French aristocrat, and the greasy fat Greek pervert, and he was amused that his delaying had lost them so much money. He wasn’t going to be threatened by anyone. He was the king sitting on his throne at 88 Mincing Lane. When it came to money, God help anyone who tried to get one over him; when battles involved money, he won every time. He knew how to fight with money the way field marshals know how to fight with soldiers. His company client list didn’t read like an elongated version of Who’s Who for nothing: he was the best in the Commodity Market, not only in this country, but anywhere in the world. He wasn’t scared of anyone — he would take on all the best fighters in the world — as long as they fought with money.

His chain of thought was interrupted by his secretary bringing him in the evening paper, the New Standard , as she always did at five o’clock. He glanced at the headlines: ‘BLOODY END FOR THE MERCHANT OF DEATH.’ The photograph beneath it struck him like a fist between his legs: it was the contorted face of Jimmy Culundis.

Constantinou ‘Jimmy’ Culundis, billionaire international arms dealer, was found shot dead in his Athens home early this morning. A personal security guard was also found dead nearby. An Athens police detective said Culundis had many underworld connections as well as many international political connections; it was known that he supplied armaments to a wide variety of organizations ranging from right-wing governments to left-wing terrorist organizations.

The journalist who wrote the ten-column article concluded with the words:

It is inevitable for a man who profits by violence, in the way Culundis has throughout his career, that one day, one of his dealings must come home to roost: For Jimmy Culundis, under a blazing dawn sky on a perfect Greek morning, that day was today. Culundis leaves a wife and three children.

Elleck sat back in his chair, and began to think hard. A moment later, his intercom buzzed. It was his secretary, and she sounded strange.

‘Sir Monty — I have Viscomte Lasserre’s personal secretary on the line now — would you like to speak to her?’

‘Er — isn’t he there?’

‘I think you’d better speak to her.’

‘Put her on.’

There was a click, and then a voice in broken English: ‘Allo? Sir Montay Hellix?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘I ’ave to tell you bad news. The Viscomte Lasserre was killed in an aeroplane accident last night.’

‘Viscomte Lasserre?’

‘I am afraid so — yes, sir — he—’ she broke down and began sobbing. After a few moments she stopped. ‘I can’t talk more now. I am sorry; I am so sorry.’ The line went dead.

Elleck stared blankly into the receiver for a few moments, then replaced it. He began to pick his fingernails, violently. He felt numb. For ten minutes he sat, staring blankly across his office, trying to focus his mind on what had happened.

The £1,000 million of gold that Rocq had bought on the syndicate’s behalf today — Globalex had guaranteed the payment of the entire amount. His arrangement with Lasserre and Culundis was that they would transfer the funds to his bank each day, as the gold was bought. As he hadn’t bought until today, he had not required the funds. The purpose of his telephone call to Lasserre had been to ask Lasserre for immediate payment of the £100 million of margin. There was nothing in writing, nothing at all; he had never had anything in writing with Lasserre — everything was always done verbally. Globalex was now on the hook for £1,000 million worth of gold, which it had bought at the top of the market. With the drop of $5 an ounce at the close of play it meant, on the 840,000 ounces they had bought today, they were down over £2 million already.

His brain raced; he had a chill fear run through him as he wondered if the two deaths were connected. The coincidence was too great, he decided, for them not to be. Was it the syndicate someone was wiping out, or were they killed because of some other business dealing? He thought with an even deeper chill about the break-in, the murder of Sarge, and suddenly he did not want to be alone in the building; he pressed the intercom. ‘Jane — would you mind staying on for a bit longer? I — er — I may have a few urgent letters to give you.’

‘Well — I can stay another half hour, Sir Monty — we have to go to a dinner tonight, and the 6.10 is really the latest train I can catch.’

‘Okay, fine. Can you get Rocq, please. I need him up here immediately.’ With Lasserre and Culundis dead, he had no idea whether the plan would still go ahead or not. Perhaps they had set it into irreversible motion? Perhaps their deaths were intended to stop it?

He couldn’t risk it: £1,000 million of gold was a lot of money to be on the hook for, a damned lot, by anyone’s standards.

Elleck did some calculations in his head: he had cash reserves on short-term deposits of £40 million, specifically for covering particularly good clients whom the company did not want to bother with small margin calls. He had another fifty million on one-year term deposits, and a further forty million in stocks, shares and commodities. The Globalex building was worth about three million. At a pinch, he could rustle up £140 million. If gold dropped twenty per cent, he would have to fork out £200 million; he didn’t have £200 million. His legs began to tremble. It was impossible he thought, impossible; he could never have allowed such a thing to happen. But he had allowed it. He had actually allowed himself to get into a position whereby he could go to the wall.

The intercom buzzed and he pushed the button: ‘Yes?’

‘I’m afraid Mr Rocq left about twenty-five minutes ago, Sir Monty.’