Billionaire

  ‘Do you have any clues what this might be?’

  Rice grinned and nodded smugly; then he wished he hadn’t, and realized it was the alcohol that caused him to make this indiscretion.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I can’t tell you yet, Jimbo, because I don’t know.’

  ‘But you must have a pretty good idea?’

  Rice again couldn’t resist the temptation to show how clever he was. ‘I might do,’ he said.

  ‘And what’s the verdict?’

  Rice toyed with his rare rumpsteak, trimmed some fat off, cut a small piece of meat, put some mustard on it; slowly, debatingly, he raised it towards his mouth, then put it back down again. ‘It looks very much as though the facts are correct; that there is a major cancer link.’

  ‘And what do you reckon will happen to coffee when that little gem comes out?’

  ‘It’ll fall even further. Plummet. Depends how the public takes the news – and how the health authorities act, and how serious the link actually is – how badly the use is affected. I can’t predict how far it could eventually fall – but it could be a long way further.’

  ‘So it would be wise to go short, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Well – nothing is definite yet. I would advise anyone to wait. By the way, Rocky – I’m sorry I had to send you a margin call.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Rocq slurred, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Win some, lose some – that’s one of the hazards of punting.’

  The Honourable James Rice put the forkful of steak into his mouth and pulverized it between his immaculately capped teeth, while his aristocratic saliva set to work converting it into a substance that would be acceptable to his stomach. He nodded slowly at Rocq.

  ‘Jimbo – I think I’d better go short. Do you think you could do me – er –’ Rocq paused to work it out. He was down at the present time some £480,000; he needed to make that up, and fast, and his only chance was to invest in a volatile commodity. None right now, he knew, was more volatile than coffee. He couldn’t think lucidly enough to work out the sums. ‘How much do you reckon I need to sell short to make £480,000?’

  ‘A fair amount, old man. And you know I can’t take any order from you until you’ve covered your outstanding margin.’

  Rocq nodded and their eyes met, firmly, for the first time since they had sat at the table. ‘I know,’ he said.

  Rice looked down, picked up his wine glass and drained it. Then he began sawing off another chunk of steak; he spoke without raising his eyes from the meat. ‘There are a lot of people who have been caught with their trousers down, Alex, a lot.’

  Rocq noticed he was now calling him by his Christian name instead of his nickname.

  ‘A lot of people are going to go belly-up over this coffee business – and not just individuals – major companies, too. I personally would not be at all surprised if it brought a few brokerage houses down at the same time. I’ve been in this game for ten years and I’ve never seen a crash like it. All the clearing houses are going to be out to collect in every penny they possibly can – including ours. Elleck has issued instructions that all margin owed is to be paid in full – at once – no extensions, no increases, and margins must be paid up-front before any new orders are placed. He’s ordered a print-out of every outstanding order of coffee on Globalex’s books – it’s out of my hands entirely, old man. Absolutely nothing I can do. I’d help you if I could – but just don’t see how I can. Can you find the margin you need – and enough on top to go short?’

  They caught each other’s eye again.

  ‘If you give me enough time,’ said Rocq.

  ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘About forty years.’

  Rice grinned. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You know what I need to do? I need to go short, hope to hell coffee drops, and then I’m out of the woods.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t drop?’

  ‘Then I hope the stuff rises high enough to get me out of schtum.’

  ‘Right now I don’t think it’s safe to count on anything.’

  ‘I can’t stand still, Jimbo. I need £480,000 to stand still, and that’s £480,000 more than I have. I’ve got to stay in the game, it’s my only hope.’

  ‘W. C. Fields was once found drunk in a hick town, playing a rigged game of poker, and getting ripped off on every hand. Someone asked him why he kept on playing when he knew the game was rigged. He replied, “Because it’s the only game in town.” Four hundred and eighty thousand is a lot of money, Alex, but it’s a lot less than you could lose if you stay in the game.’

  ‘That, old wise man, is a risk I’m going to have to take.’

  18

  Rocq got back to his office. Within seconds of sitting at his desk, the bouncing Baron was on the line from Toronto.

  ‘What’s with all this coffee business, Alex?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just lost my shirt and pants.’

  ‘Why the hell did you go dabbling in coffee?’ asked Rocq, feeling more than a trifle hypocritical.

  ‘I got a tip-off it was going to go through the roof.’

  ‘Sure you heard your tipster right?’

  The Baron ignored the comment. ‘Why the heck didn’t you advise me not to go into coffee?’

  ‘You didn’t ask. Anyhow, I’m a metal broker – you want advice on coffee, ask someone that knows about coffee.’

  ‘You’re the only one who knows anything about anything,’ said the Baron.

  For one of the rare occasions in his life, the flattery went clean over Rocq’s head. ‘How much did you drop?’

  ‘I don’t know. A lot. Couple of million maybe; what you reckon it’s going to do?’

  ‘It would be unprofessional of me to give you an opinion.’

  ‘So give me an opinion – when the hell were you professional?’

  ‘Go short, Harry – it’s going to go down some more.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty-five – fifty – maybe one hundred – maybe more.’

  ‘Okay, Alex. If you’re wrong – I’m going to get really mad.’

  ‘Hey – now hold on – I just said I’m not an expert on coffee – if –’ Rocq stopped in mid-sentence – the Baron had rung off. He put back the receiver and sat there. His headache was starting, and the depression was in full stream. Rice had annoyed him at lunch, annoyed him a lot; he had been complacent and very unhelpful. Rice could have accepted his order for the amount of coffee he wanted to sell short without the margin payment up front – he had plenty of discretionary accounts, and he wouldn’t have got into a lot of trouble over it. The amount of margin that would have been required from Rocq was small beer in terms of the amounts Rice bought and sold every day. Rocq could understand Rice’s position, to a point, but he didn’t accept it. There were many things in life that he understood clearly, but he did not accept; often it was because he did not like what he understood. Occasionally it was because he had no choice; today was one of those occasions. He picked up his telephone and dialled Theo Barbiero-Ruche’s number in Milan.

  After having narrowly escaped being kidnapped on his way to the office a few years previously, Barbiero-Ruche now worked at home. ‘Barbiero-Ruche,’ the Italian’s deep voice boomed down the phone within moments of the ringing tone starting.

  ‘Theo – it’s Rocky.’

  ‘Ah, you bastard,’ said the Italian. ‘I’m not too happy with you, not too happy at all.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘That damn girl you fixed me up with – Dingly – Dunky – what’s her name?’

  ‘Deidre.’

  ‘Yeah, Deidre. She gave me a present.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘You know what the present was?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘The clap.’ There was a long silence. ‘It’s not funny, Rocky.’

  ‘I wasn’t laughing.’

&nbs
p; ‘You weren’t laughing? You were laughing yourself stupid.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Theo – it must have been interference on the line.’

  ‘Interference – I’ll give you interference. You know how many broads I got lined up right now? I never had so many damned broads lined up – and what I got to tell them? Sorry, babies, Theo can’t see you right now because he went to England and got the clap from a dog?’

  ‘You don’t have to screw them, Theo; girls like being taken out – you know – theatre, opera, nice dinner then drop them home. Try being romantic – you might find you enjoy it.’

  ‘You’re full of shit,’ grunted the Italian. ‘Anyhow – what the hell you call for? No one left to talk to in England? All your damn clients in bed with terminal venereals?’

  ‘Superwop – just shut your face a moment and let me get a word in edgeways. I’m sorry about your problems – take the tablets and they’ll get better. I’ve got problems of my own right now, all thanks to your damned advice.’

  ‘What problems you got, Rocky?’

  Rocq looked cautiously around him to see if anyone was listening to him. They weren’t. Mozer and Slivitz were both engaged in shouting matches with clients who appeared to be on the other side of the world and stone deaf.

  ‘Coffee.’

  The Italian emitted a low moaning that sounded like a bad attack of indigestion. ‘You too. How bad?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Got to take the rough with the smooth, Rocky. I got the clap, you got the coffee.’

  ‘Want to swap?’

  ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘What do you reckon it’s going to do?’

  ‘I hear the World Health Organization’s got a lot of hard evidence. It’s going to drop some more – whole lot more when that news breaks.’

  ‘When is it going to break?’

  ‘Couple of days, maybe. Week or two at the most.’

  ‘How much is it going to drop?’

  ‘Fifty for sure. Maybe one hundred. Could even go one hundred and fifty. It depends.’

  ‘So you’d advise going short?’

  ‘For sure, Rocky; you must go short.’

  ‘What price do you have on coffee at the moment?’

  ‘Four hundred and twenty-seven pounds sterling, September. You want the dollar price?’

  ‘Sterling’s fine. Okay, Theo, I want you to sell some coffee short for me.’ Rocq paused, and did some sums on his calculator. ‘Twelve thousand tons,’ he said, finally.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Barbiero-Ruche. ‘I’d have trouble selling 2,000, let alone 12,000.’ He paused. ‘I’ll call you back, Rocky – after I’ve rung The Producers Pact. They’re trying to support the market. Someone there owes me a favour.’ He rung off.

  Five minutes later he was on the line again. ‘Okay, Rocky. 12,000 tons. It’ll be crossed on the market tomorrow. I’m going to have to ask you for margin, Rocky – too much for me to carry on my own.’

  ‘No problem, Theo,’ Rocq lied.

  ‘I’m going to need £512,000. Okay?’

  ‘Sure – I’ll tell my bank to send you a telegraphic transfer – soon as I get your confirmation.’

  ‘You’ll get that tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay – soon as I receive it, you’ll get your margin. Keep taking the tablets, fat man.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao.’ Rocq replaced the receiver and breathed a sigh. He had a chance now. Somehow, he would have to fool Barbiero-Ruche into believing that the £512,000 margin was on its way. The Italian reckoned that coffee would drop within the week. If he could spin the Italian along until then, he could be out of the woods. Communications with Italy and internally in Italy were dreadful. Cables and telexes did frequently go astray. He just hoped that Barbiero-Ruche would keep that sell order for him and not liquidate it. He was going to have to rely on a mixture of their good friendship and bad communications.

  He went and got himself a coffee and returned to his desk.

  ‘Was that your lunch hour – or did you have your dinner early?’ said Mozer sarcastically, leaning over to him.

  ‘No – I’ve been out trying to buy a deodorant strong enough for your breath.’

  Mozer shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Alex: my breath may not be so fresh, but my work record smells a damned sight better than yours.’

  ‘Go back to your cave, Henry.’

  They were interrupted by a clerk bringing a telex and placing it on Rocq’s desk. He stared at it, and all his anxieties came flooding back.

  It was a confirmation from Theo Barbiero-Ruche, of his instructions to sell 12,000 tons of coffee at £427 in September. From tomorrow he would be legally bound to sell that coffee at that price. Five million and one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds. If coffee dropped, by at least £50, he would be fine – and if it dropped even more, he stood to make a substantial profit. If it rose, however, he would be adding a mighty further amount to his slate. He would have no option but to declare himself bankrupt. He re-read the confirmation once more. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  19

  Jean-Luc Menton awoke with a start, sweating heavily, to a noise that sounded like a dog being sick – except that he didn’t have a dog. As his brain focussed on reality, he knew without opening his eyes that the noise was from his girlfriend, Valerie, who always slept on her stomach, and half-suffocated against the pillow.

  He slid his hand out and picked up his Casio digital watch.

  ‘Merde,’ he informed himself. He put the watch back, picked up a pack of Gauloises, shook a cigarette out, put it into his mouth, lit it with his Bic lighter and inhaled deeply. Then, with the cigarette still in his mouth, he jumped out of bed, and began pulling on his clothes.

  The grunting gagging noises stopped and were replaced by Valerie’s deep voice. ‘Quelle heure est-il?’

  ‘Dix heures et demi.’

  He ran into the bathroom, put the cigarette in the soap tray, chucked some cold water on his face, dried it, then replaced the cigarette. He pulled on his jacket, picked up a couple of packets of chewing gum from the sidetable, mumbled ‘Au revoir, à toute à l’heure,’ and dashed out of the apartment.

  Menton knew that the Viscomte did not like to be kept waiting, and he was already an hour late, with a thirty-minute drive ahead of him. As he walked down the stairs, he thought back hard on the interview he had had with the Israeli, General Ephraim, on the beach at La Baule. He had no doubt that Viscomte Lasserre would require a very detailed account of Ephraim’s reaction.

  He left the small modern apartment beside the old U-boat pens at St Nazaire harbour, walked over to his green Alfasud, climbed in and started the engine. He rammed the gear lever into first, and accelerated fiercely away; almost immediately, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in the base of his head.

  ‘Tournez à droite,’ said the man with the Walther automatic, in the back seat.

  Menton arrived two hours late for his meeting with the Viscomte. He didn’t mention anything about the interlude with the man with the Walther. He was too scared.

  At 3.15 that Tuesday morning, the green phone on General Isser Ephraim’s desk buzzed sharply. Ephraim picked up the receiver. It was Chaim Weisz, head of French operations for the Mossad. Ephraim took the piece of chewing gum from his mouth and placed it in the ashtray.

  ‘This man,’ said Weisz, ‘Jean-Luc Menton. We have some information.’

  Baenhaker was feeling horny. It was a feeling that had persisted continually for about a week, and almost everything he did to turn his mind away from sex invariably brought him straight back to the subject. He read the newspapers and found himself turning with avid attention to any article that hinted of rape or divorce. He tried three novels in succession, to discover limbs and organs entwined, after only a few pages, in each one. He tried the television, the radio, and then he would give up for a while and would luxuriate in ogling the nurses in the ward.

  He was slightly
ashamed with himself that during the course of the week his standards of who he did and did not fancy among the nurses had lowered considerably. Last Friday, he had decided that there were only two he fancied, and that the rest were extremely unattractive. By Saturday, four of them he decided were passable and by Sunday, six. It was now Tuesday morning, and he decided that even one of the elderly cleaning women didn’t look too bad.

  He tried to figure out exactly for how long it was that he had been in here: he knew it was about three weeks, but he wanted to be more precise. The day of the accident was still a blank. He could remember only having gone to stay with a male friend at Bristol university that weekend, and playing chess much of the time; it was a game of chess that had caused him not to leave on the Sunday and stay over until the Monday; but he could not remember actually leaving.

  Something, however, nagged him. He was deeply upset still over Amanda and somehow, he was sure in his mind, there was some connection between her and his accident. He tried to go back in his mind to that Monday, but there was nothing there.

  ‘Good morning Mr Baenhaker.’