Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

‘No. Sorry. But you should ask George Calhoun about all this. He’d be able to tell you more.’

‘Is he still in Human Resources?’

They fired him about a year ago.’

‘Oh, what a shame. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’

‘Especially after all he did for us,’ said Abby, grinning.

‘Do you know how I can get hold of him?’

‘I don’t know if he got another job,’ said Abby. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I don’t have his home number.’

‘Never mind. I’ll track him down. Thanks for your help.’

‘No problem,’ said Abby, picking up her phone.

Chris took the elevator up a couple of floors. The doors opened on a large, hushed reception area, guarded by a beautifully groomed young woman, who asked Chris to take a seat, offered him a cup of tea, and promised that Mr Astle would be with him shortly.

Of course he wasn’t, but Chris didn’t mind waiting. He watched people come and go through a heavy smoked-glass door, waving their passes at a blinking green eye on a black panel each time. He thought about the police investigation into Alex’s death.

It had been tense. The first set of questions was quick and easy. They had all agreed to describe what actually happened, including Duncan’s argument with Alex, but to miss out the fight. Only Lenka and Duncan were to admit to actually seeing Alex go overboard, the rest of them were up on the bridge looking the other way. But a couple of days after the initial questioning, they were all interviewed again, by a pair of detectives who were much more probing. They seemed to think there was something wrong about the story, but they didn’t know quite what. One of them had asked Chris if there had been a fight, and Chris had said that if there had been, he hadn’t seen it. Afterwards, everyone’s nerves were on edge, but they all felt they had succeeded in keeping to their stories. Duncan wobbled and said he was going to tell the truth, but Eric and Chris persuaded him that since they had lied this far, they may as well see it through. Eventually, Duncan had agreed.

Ian, Duncan and Chris had been asked to stay in New York for an extra week, so that they would be available for further questioning. It also gave them a chance to attend Alex’s funeral. They spent a lot of time together, with Lenka and Eric. Both Lenka and Duncan were distraught, blaming themselves for what had happened. Ian was moody, talking little, and brooding often. Lenka got herself hopelessly drunk twice in that week. She and Duncan were careful not to talk to each other, and it was always awkward when they were in the same room.

Eric, and to a lesser extent Chris himself, had been a calming force on all of them, although Alex was a closer friend of Eric’s than any of the others. Then, after a week, the police had closed the case, and with a great feeling of relief the three Brits flew home.

‘Hi, Chris, thanks for waiting.’ It was Eric. ‘I hoped I could get away early this evening, and I think I still can, but something’s come up. I’ll be another twenty minutes or so.’

‘Can I wait in your office?’

‘Sorry,’ Eric said. ‘You’re not allowed beyond those doors. Security is everything in M&A these days.’

‘I understand,’ Chris said. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you a quick favour. I thought I’d try to track down George Calhoun tomorrow. I know he got the boot from here a year ago, but I don’t know where he is. Who can I ask?’

‘George Calhoun, eh?’ said Eric. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get someone to find out,’ and with that he disappeared back behind the mysterious glass doors.

Chris spotted a phone in a quiet corner of the reception area, and asked the woman behind the desk whether he could use it. No problem. Chris dialled Carpathian’s office. Ollie was still there, and he was agitated.

‘Bad news.’

Chris’s heart sank. ‘What now?’

‘It’s Melville Capital Management. They want out.’

Chris closed his eyes. Melville was a small firm, based in Princeton, that managed the endowment funds of half a dozen private colleges across the United States. They were a relatively small investor in the fund, at three million euros. But after his disastrous meeting with Rudy, the withdrawal of another three million was the last thing the fund needed. And two investors jumping ship could be enough to scare the rest of them.

‘Did they give any reason?’

‘No. Just that they wanted to give their thirty days’ notice.’

Although Lenka was the main point of contact with all of the investors, Chris had met most of them a couple of times. But not Melville. He remembered his phone call to them to inform them of her death. ‘Who’s the man there? Something Zissky, isn’t it?’

‘Dr Martin Zizka,’ said Ollie.

‘Give me his number.’

Ollie read out the digits.

‘Thanks.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ollie.

‘Tell him he’s staying in the fund.’

‘Good luck.’ Then, in a tentative voice. ‘How did it go with Amalgamated Veterans?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Chris hung up, and punched out the number Ollie had given him.

‘Zizka,’ a voice answered, so quietly Chris could barely hear it.

‘Dr Zizka?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is Chris Szczypiorski of the Carpathian Fund.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Zizka didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear from him.

‘I understand you are thinking of withdrawing your investment.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Melville Capital is a very important investor to us, and we’d be sorry to lose you. I wonder if it would be possible to meet you to discuss this further.’

As Chris had expected, Zizka didn’t sound thrilled with this proposal. ‘Aren’t you based in London?’

‘I’m in New York at the moment. I could come and see you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m very busy all day tomorrow. I’m not sure I have any free time.’

‘Dr Zizka. All I need is half an hour. As I said, you are an important investor to me. And I know you were important to Lenka as well.’ Chris winced as he said this, but he knew he had to use Lenka’s name all he could if he were to keep Carpathian intact.

Zizka sighed. ‘All right. Four o’clock. But it really will be half an hour. I have a meeting at four thirty.’

‘That’s fine, Dr Zizka. I’ll see you then.’

Chris was just putting the phone down when Eric returned. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, noticing the expression on Chris’s face.

‘Don’t ask. It serves me right for checking in with the office.’

Eric smiled sympathetically. ‘Always a mistake. Now let’s get out of here before someone else grabs me.’

They swept out of the building, and just as Chris was wondering whether Eric would insist on taking a taxi to the train station rather than the subway, a black limo swept up, leaving half a dozen similar vehicles behind it. A driver leapt out and opened the door for Chris and then Eric.

‘This is Terry,’ Eric said. ‘He’ll take you to see George Calhoun tomorrow morning. You are staying the night, aren’t you?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘That’s great. You don’t want to come all the way back into the city late at night.’

‘So where do you live?’ asked Chris, as the limo, which was really just a large saloon car, pulled away from the front of the Bloomfield Weiss building.

‘On Long Island. A place called Mill Neck. It’s right near Oyster Bay.’

It was rush hour, and it took them over an hour to fight through the traffic. Eric spent most of his time on the phone. It wasn’t for show, there seemed to be two live deals going on at the same time. Chris pretended not to listen, but of course he did. Eric was frustratingly vague, and kept on telling people he ‘couldn’t talk now’, although he did mention Rome, Munich and Dallas a lot. He was talking to someone called Sergio about someone else called Jim. Some big Italian deal, perhaps with a US company based in Texas?