Питер Джеймс: Billionaire

‘I presume, Sir Monty — that the same commission arrangement stands?’

‘What?’ said Elleck, looking apoplectic. ‘That commission rate I agreed on was based on our making a massive profit out of this deal — that has changed now — we’re trying to save our necks — how do you have the nerve to come in here and talk about commissions?’

‘It’s not my neck that’s on the hook on this gold, Sir Monty, it’s Globalex — which means yours. My neck is on the hook on this coffee — I’ve got the best part of a million pounds to find: 480,000 for you, and 512,000 for Barbiero-Ruche.’

‘So — you should have paid us last Monday. But we haven’t pressed you for the money.’

‘I know; but we did make a deal.’

‘You want your commission, or you want to see Globalex go down the toilet?’

‘I want my commission and I don’t want Globalex to go down the toilet.’

‘Well I’m afraid, Alex, the situation has changed; you are not getting any damned commission.’

‘In that case, Sir Monty, you’d better book a course of guitar lessons while you’ve still got the cash.’

‘Guitar lessons? Are you cracking up?’

‘No, Sir Monty; if gold drops any further, either you pay me the commission in full, today, for the buying and the selling, or else you are going to have to take up busking. I’m not selling one bar for you until that commission is in my bank; and if gold keeps dropping at the rate it is, by the time you manage to find out the thirty-seven different companies, banks and brokers where I’ve bought all that gold from, you’re going to discover it’s far too damned late.’

‘Get out of my office,’ bellowed Elleck.

Rocq got out, and went back downstairs. He was seething with fury, but he knew he had no option in what he had said. If Globalex did go bust and he was shown as owing the company money, the creditors would come after him for every penny. He had lost everything once before, when the stockbroking firm he worked for had gone to the wall. He wasn’t going to lose everything again: this time he was looking after Number One first.

By midday, gold had dropped to $635; over $70 had been wiped off its price since yesterday evening; there was an international panic on to get out of the stuff. By half past twelve, a further $30 had been wiped off the value. Rocq’s intercom buzzed: it was Elleck. ‘The £992,000 has just been transferred into your bank account; you can call the bank yourself and check. Now please unload our position,’ he said, meekly as a lamb.

‘Thank you,’ said Rocq. He rang his bank. The money was there. He smiled to himself, a smile of relief. Then he stopped smiling: he didn’t have much to smile about yet. Not unless he thought it would be amusing to be the richest man in the graveyard.

Twenty minutes later, Rocq buzzed Elleck: ‘No one wants to buy gold right now, Sir Monty; the best price I can get anywhere on a five-bar lot is—’ he paused, ‘five hundred and ninety-four dollars.’

There was a long silence. ‘That would cost more money than I have,’ said Elleck curtly. ‘Don’t do anything; we’ll have to wait for an upturn.’

It was strange, Rocq reflected, but he almost felt sorry for the bastard.

At half-past four, gold had dipped to $578; $129 had been wiped off its value. It was the largest single drop in the price in one day in the history of the metal. The atmosphere in Globalex was funereal. The brokers around Alex were frantically trying to bail their clients out of the gold they had so eagerly urged them into during the boom of the previous days. Rocq was the only one in the room who appeared to be unflustered in his actions.

At a quarter past five, the receptionist rang Rocq to say that Amanda was outside, waiting for him. He cursed. He had forgotten they were driving to a dinner party near Sevenoaks tonight. He buzzed on the intercom up to Elleck’s office. Elleck’s secretary answered; ‘He’s left for the day, Mr Rocq; he wasn’t feeling too well.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Rocq.

He shut his briefcase, picked up his mackintosh, and went out to greet Amanda.

It had rained heavily during the day, and now the late afternoon sun was drying the streets, sending little wisps of steam up. Suddenly, Baenhaker saw Rocq appear; in the same instant, he saw to his horror that Amanda was with him. The two of them stopped at the pavement, then crossed the road and disappeared out of his sight into the ground floor of the car park; Baenhaker heard their footsteps as they began climbing the stairs.

For a moment, he froze, then retreated further up the staircase, in case they missed the floor, which was all too easy, judging by the twenty or so people who had done so during the day. He heard them stop at the second floor; Rocq said something, and Amanda laughed. Baenhaker was seized with more emotions than he knew how to cope with; it had never occurred to him that Amanda might be accompanying Rocq.

‘Let me drive,’ he heard her say.

‘Okay — I’ll get it out the parking lot for you.’

‘Alex Rocq, I am quite capable of reversing a motor car,’ she said indignantly.

‘Okay, okay — I’ll see you out.’

‘Okay — thanks.’

Baenhaker heard the sound of the door open, then shut, then the engine turned over by the starter motor; the fuse would now have been triggered off and in less than two minutes, the car would explode. He heard her second attempt at starting, still to no avail.

‘Pump the accelerator, twice!’ he heard Rocq’s voice, shouting through the window.

Then he heard the engine fire, and the sound of a gear being engaged.

Baenhaker was shaking and sweating; his head was swimming; he couldn’t, not her. Something! He had to do something! Frantically, he pulled the Walther out from inside his jacket, sprinted down the steps; Amanda was in the middle of backing out, and Rocq was anxiously signalling with his hands.

‘Right hand down,’ he coughed, as the exhaust smoke enveloped him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sprinting full pelt at him, gun outstretched. He flung himself onto the floor. Baenhaker ignored Rocq, grabbed open the driver’s door. ‘Get out, get out!’ he screamed, hysterically.

‘Danny!’ she screamed in fear, staring frozen at the gun.

Baenhaker grabbed her under the arm, yanked her out of the car and flung her onto the floor; Rocq started to get up.

‘Stay down Alex, he’s got a gun!’ she screamed.

Baenhaker flung himself into the driving seat of the car, crashed the gear into first, and flattened the accelerator. He did not know where he was going, he just knew he had to get the car away from Amanda. He had never driven a Porsche before, let alone a turbo-powered one, and the acceleration took him by surprise. The tail snaked viciously across the concrete floor and he swiped the front of two parked cars, then smashed into the side wall of the exit ramp; he pulled desperately at the steering wheel, but the turbo had now cut fully in, the rear wheels gripped, and the car began to ride up the side of the wall; it crashed down onto its side, rolled onto its roof, and slid crazily down the ramp onto the next floor, slamming into a parked Rolls Royce. Baenhaker tried frantically to orient himself and disentangle himself. He scrambled for the door handle, couldn’t find it, scrabbled more desperately, found a handle, wrenched at it, and heard a smooth whirring sound as the electric motor adjusted the door mirror. Cursing wildly, he moved his hand first up, then downwards, then he found it and pulled; nothing happened. He shoved against the door, desperately; it wouldn’t move; he gave another shove.

Rocq scrambled to his feet. ‘Stay down,’ he shouted at Amanda. He ran after the Porsche then froze in his tracks as he saw it turn on its side and slide down the ramp; it crashed into the Rolls and then rocked to and fro. The figure inside was scrabbling desperately to get out. Suddenly the Porsche leapt several feet into the air; as it fell back down, a sheet of white flame engulfed it. The driver’s door tore off and smashed into the side of a car parked to the left; then the whole Porsche turned into a ball of flame. Rocq heard screams of terror from Amanda; he knelt over the edge of the parapet, and threw up into Lower Thames Street.