Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

In 1959 one of their number had met Stanley. They had worked out one of the first private offshore investment company setups to be established in the Caribbean area. Stanley Rosen, in true character, had discovered Curaçao not too long after the Dutch had, it seems. He had carefully developed the necessary bank connections there, had gained the services of a first-class law firm and a world-renowned, non-American accountancy and auditing company. The corporate structure that had been worked out was as near to perfection as one could get in a world crawling with tax inspectors, and plagued by ever-changing tax laws, currency restrictions, death duties, reporting requirements, et cetera ad nauseam. The Curaçao corporation was duly capitalized and received a long-term loan of a very substantial nature. All in-payments were, of course, in cash. The shares and notes were, naturally, all issued in bearer form. Under the rather lengthy bylaws, Stanley Rosen had been charged by the corporation’s officers—all third-generation European residents of the colony—to manage the company’s assets on a carte blanche basis. By 1963 Rosen had managed to triple the original cash input. That sufficed. The word spread—quietly.

In the course of the next five years he had established twenty-seven such entities; their structure increased each time in terms of complexity and finesse. Curaçao had been joined by the Bahamas, the Cayman Islands, and of course Liechtenstein as corporate domiciles. Often two or more of these offshore havens were strung together within one corporate complex, with separate directorships, separate balance sheets, separate auditors. The only thing they all had in common was a management contract with Stanley Rosen, or one of his corporations in Bermuda, Panama, or Luxembourg. By the early 1970s the combined assets of this system added up to a ten-digit number. Rosen managed all of it—successfully.

Exactly this thought was passing through Stanley Rosen’s mind as he relaxed into an easy chair in the sitting room of his suite. Running over a billion bucks, and still not satisfied.

The decision that had led to his presence in Beirut had been taken just two weeks ago, over lunch at Delmonico’s. His “partner,” Harry Stahl, had been waiting for over half an hour before Stanley had finally turned up.

“Where the hell you been so long?” Harry had inquired.

“Talking to a new client.”

“Talking to a what? I thought we agreed years ago that we had more than enough to handle. Stanley, I’m warning you. I’ve got my hands completely full now with all the back office work. Christ, you ought to know better!”

“Now wait a minute. First let me tell you what kind of a client. Boy, what’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I don’t like surprises.”

“O.K., O.K. But now just listen for a minute. I’m not committed. So hold your horses until you hear my story. All right?”

Harry Stahl had calmed down. He knew his “partner” all too well to doubt that there must be something big involved: something that must interest the bejesus out of Stanley. That was not easy these days. Grudgingly Harry said, “I ordered you a shrimp cocktail and a steak—rare, with french-fried onions.”

Stanley had then told what little there really was to be told at this point. At nine that morning a fellow, who introduced himself as Omar Radazan from Beirut, had called him and asked for an appointment at his earliest possible convenience. He had referred to a man from Miami who was big in the international resort hotel business and a client of long standing of Stanley. At ten-thirty he had shown up. A dapper little bastard. Smooth as silk, polite as hell, about forty. His card had indicated that he was head of the Beirut branch of the Commercial Bank of the Trucial States, headquartered in Bahrain for Christ’s sake. It seemed that all of the Arab banks have branches in Beirut. This just by the way. It had taken Radazan less than five minutes to ask Rosen if he would consider taking over the management of the investment funds of one of his friends, or clients, or relatives—the relationship was never really clearly spelled out. But the funds were. Just over $100 million. At present they were invested in a whole string of U.S. common shares, a sprinkling of preferreds, and a big block of, for Christ’s sake, municipal bonds. Municipal bonds for an Arab?

Initially, Radazan had not mentioned the investment bank in New York which was handling the account, but after he pulled out the sheet listing the cats and dogs in the portfolio, Stanley had identified it immediately. Their record had been piss-poor for years. But they still lived well on their reputation, and the reputations of ex-Cabinet members, generals, and even admirals which they regularly bought in competition with other banks, aero-space companies, and management consultants in the true spirit of free enterprise. Unlike baseball, a systematic draft system had not yet evolved. But back to money and the mysterious Oriental.

Rosen had been very, very leery in the beginning. He had had enough experience in international finance to know two things. First, Arab money is 99 percent myth, or perhaps 99.999 percent. He had never met anyone who had ever really seen a major chunk of it. Second, whenever strange people start talking in terms of tens of millions of dollars, not to speak of a hundred million, the chances are a thousand to one that it’s a complete waste of time—no, a million to one.

At this point Harry Stahl had interrupted. “So why didn’t you kick him out of the office?”

“I’ll tell you why. Because he offered to arrange immediately for first-class fare to Beirut, and $10,000 prepaid expenses. With no commitment on either side.”

This even stopped Harry. “Well, I’ll be damned! But Arabs! Don’t they know you’re Jewish?”

“He didn’t ask. But what the hell, If those fellows make such an offer, they must have checked up pretty carefully beforehand.”

“Do you want to work for a bunch of crazy Arabs, Stanley?”

“That’s just it. I would. I mean, if those guys have somehow developed enough interest in me to make such an approach, well, dammit, I think that’s pretty good. I get tired of lining up broads for most of those schmucks we’ve got now as clients. And tired of listening to them tell me for the hundredth time how hard their family had to work to make all that money—and to be careful with it, or else. This would be something new.”

“But Stanley, how in hell are you going to communicate with these guys? Most of the people in New York can’t even understand you.”

The conversation had then eased into the usual kidding session. After lunch Stanley called Mr. Radazan at the Regency. They had agreed upon the arrangements. And here he was. In Lebanon, for God’s sake.

Stanley decided to take a shower and then a nap. About four hours later the phone rang. It was Radazan. He suggested dinner together, but Rosen declined. They agreed that Stanley would get some more rest that night, and that Radazan would pick him up at the hotel at ten. Stanley went back to sleep.

The following morning, Tuesday October 21, Rosen had breakfast on the terrace outside of his hotel living room. The weather was absolutely superb and the view of the Mediterranean magnificent. The similarity to the French Riviera was unmistakable.

Radazan arrived at ten on the dot, with Cadillac and chauffeur, and within twenty minutes they were in his office, in what appeared to be a spanking new twelve-story building, of which the Beirut branch of the Commercial Bank of the Trucial States had one floor. There was absolutely no activity on the premises.

Radazan introduced Rosen to a man who was apparently his brother, or cousin, or some such thing, who did not speak a word of English and appeared to mumble a few words in French. Rosen’s French was so bad that he could not really tell. The cousin had the function of chief coffee bringer. Thick, not very hot, syrupy—ugh! The only saving grace was the large glass of water that came with it. As Stanley found out, it was useless to try to gulp it down, and get the whole damn thing over with. A few seconds after you put your cup down, old cousin appeared like magic with a fresh one, ready to go for the second round. And so forth.