Ken Follett - Paper Money

There was a short silence. "A million. For how long has Felix Laski been in the money market?"

"Since I found out how to make a real profit overnight."

"Let me in on the secret, will you?"

"All right. After you lend me the money. No kidding, George: can you do it?"

"Sure we can. What's your collateral?"

"Uh-surely you don't normally ask for collateral against twenty-four-hour money?" Laski's fist tightened on the phone until the knuckles bulged whitely.

"You're right. And we don't normally lend sums like this to banks like yours."

"Okay. My collateral is five hundred and ten thousand shares in Hamilton Holdings."

"Just a minute."

There was a silence. Laski pictured George Bernstein: a thickset man with a large head, a big nose, and a permanent broad grin, sitting at an old desk in a poky office with a view of St. Paul's, checking figures in The Financial Times, his fingers playing lightly over the keys of a desktop computer.

Bernstein came back on the line. "At today's price it's not nearly enough, Felix."

"Oh, come on, this is a formality. You know I'm not going to screw you. This is me-Felix-your friend." He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"I'd like to do it, but I've got a partner."

"Your partner is sleeping so heavily there's a rumor he's dead."

"A deal like this would wake him if he was in his grave. Try Larry Wakely, Felix. He might do something for you."

Laski had already tried Larry Wakely, but he did not say so. "I will. How about a game this weekend?"

"Love to!" The relief in Bernstein's voice was obvious. "Saturday morning at the club?"

"Ten pounds a game?"

"It'll break my heart to take your money."

"Look forward to it. Good-bye, George."

"Take care."

Laski closed his eyes for a moment, letting the phone dangle from his hand. He had known that Bernstein would not lend him the money: he was just trying anything now. He rubbed his face with his fingers. He was not beaten yet.

He depressed the cradle and got a purring tone. He dialed with a chewed pencil.

The number rang for a long time. Laski was about to dial again when it answered. "Department of Energy."

"Press Office," Laski said.

"Trying to connect you."

Another woman's voice. "Press Office."

"Good afternoon," Laski said. "Can you tell me when the Secretary of State is going to make the announcement about the oil-"

"The Secretary of State has been delayed," the woman interrupted. "Your news desk has been told, and there is a full explanation on the PA wire." She hung up.

Laski sat back in his chair. He was running scared, and he did not like it. It was his role to dominate situations such as this: he liked to be the only one in the know, the manipulator who had everyone else running around trying to figure out what was going on. Going cap in hand to moneylenders was not his style.

The phone rang again. Carol said: "A Mr. Hart on the line."

"Am I supposed to know him?"

"No, but he says it's in connection with the money the Cotton Bank needs."

"Put him on. Hello, Laski here."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Laski." It was the voice of a young man. "I'm Kevin Hart of the Evening Post."

Laski was startled. "I thought she said-Never mind."

"The money the Cotton Bank needs. Yes, well, a bank in trouble needs money, doesn't it?"

Laski said: "I don't think I want to talk to you, young man."

Before Laski could hang up, Hart said: "Tim Fitzpeterson."

Laski paled. "What?"

"Do the Cotton Bank's troubles have anything to do with the attempted suicide of Tim Fitzpeterson?"

How the hell did they know? Laski's mind raced. Maybe they didn't know. They might be guessing-flying a kite, they called it, pretending to know something in order to see whether people would deny it. Laski said: "Does your editor know you're making this call?"

"Um-of course not."

Something in the reporter's voice told Laski he had struck a chord of fear. He pressed the point home. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, young man, but if I hear any more about all this nonsense, I'll know from where the rumors originated."

Hart said: "What is your relationship with Tony Cox?"

"Who? Good-bye, young man." Laski put the phone down.

He looked at his wristwatch: it was a quarter past three. There was no way he could raise a million pounds in fifteen minutes. It looked as if it was all over.

The bank was going to go under; Laski's reputation was to be destroyed; and he would probably be involved in criminal proceedings. He contemplated leaving the country, this afternoon. He would be able to take nothing with him. Start all over again, in New York or Beirut? He was too old. If he stayed, he would be able to salvage enough from his empire to live on for the rest of his life. But what the hell kind of a life would it be?

He swiveled around in his chair and looked out of the window. The day was cooling; after all, it was not summer. The high buildings of the City were casting long shadows, and both sides of the street below were shaded. Laski watched the traffic and thought about Ellen Hamilton.

Today, of all days, he had decided to marry her. It was a painful irony. For twenty years he could have had his pick of women: models, actresses, debs, even princesses. And when at last he chose one, he went broke. A superstitious man would take that as a sign that he should not marry.

The option might no longer be open to him. Felix Laski, millionaire playboy, was one thing; Felix Laski, bankrupt ex-convict, was quite another. He was sure his relationship with Ellen was not the kind of love that could survive that level of disaster. Their love was a sensual, self-indulgent, hedonistic thing, quite different from the eternal devotion of the Book of Common Prayer.

At least, that was how it always had been. Laski had theorized that the permanent affection might come, later, from simply living together and sharing things; after all, the near-hysterical lust that had brought them together was sure to fade, in time.

I shouldn't be theorizing, he thought: at my age I should know.

This morning, the decision to marry her had seemed like a choice he could make coolly, lightly, even cynically, figuring what he would get out of it as if it were just another stock market coup. But now that he was no longer in command of the situation, he realized-and the thought hit him like a physical blow-that he needed her quite desperately. He wanted eternal devotion: he wanted someone to care about him, and to like his company, and to touch his shoulder with affection as she passed his chair; someone who would always be there, someone who would say "I love you," someone who would share his old age. He had been alone all his life: it was quite long enough.

Having admitted that much to himself, he went farther. If he could have her, he would cheerfully see his empire crumble, the Hamilton Holdings deal collapse, his reputation destroyed. He would even go to jail with Tony Cox if he thought she would be waiting when he got out.

He wished he had never met Tony Cox.

Laski had imagined it would be easy to control a two-bit hoodlum like Cox. The man might be enormously powerful inside his own little world, but he surely could not touch a respectable businessman. Maybe not: but when that businessman went into partnership-however informal-with the hoodlum, he ceased to be respectable. It was Laski, not Cox, who was compromised by the association.

Laski heard the office door open, and swung around in his chair to see Tony Cox walk in.

Laski stared openmouthed. It was like seeing a ghost.

Carol scuttled in behind Cox, worrying him like a terrier. She said to Laski: "I asked him to wait, but he wouldn't-he just walked in!"

"All right, Carol, I'll deal with it," Laski said.