Elleck paused; Rocq stared motionlessly at him, then slowly nodded his head.
‘Of course,’ continued Elleck, ‘you could opt to go bankrupt. If you do that, everything that you own will be taken from you to go towards paying your debts, but beyond that you would owe not a penny more – so that would free you from one millstone. The problem with going bankrupt is your career. You have spent much time qualifying as a metal broker, learning this business. You clearly do well at it, and you know how to make a lot of money out of it. If this – er – unhappy situation were to arise, I would of course have to terminate your employment here. I am afraid, also, that as an undischarged bankrupt – perhaps even as a discharged bankrupt – you would find it very difficult ever to get employment in this field again.’
‘I fully understand, Sir Monty,’ said Rocq. He was thinking hard about Theo Barbiero-Ruche and his coffee. It was thanks to his advice that he was here now; he had just sold 12,000 tons short, again on his advice. If Theo was wrong again, he didn’t want to think of the consequences. In spite of the warmth the alcohol gave him, he felt another chill run through his body.
There was a knock on the door and Elleck’s secretary came in. ‘Are you going to sign your post, Sir Monty?’
‘Leave it, Jane – I don’t think there’s anything urgent. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘All right. Is there anything you need?’
‘No thank you, Jane.’
‘Thank you, Sir Monty. Good night.’
‘Good night, Jane.’ He waited until the door was closed and turned to Rocq. ‘Alex, if this company had a million pounds spare, it would pay these debts for you gladly.’
Rocq sat up a little. For the first time since he had come into Elleck’s office, the chairman had lied.
‘But we do not have a million pounds spare.’
Rocq sat up a little further. Elleck had just told his second lie.
‘I am, however, privy to some information that, if acted upon correctly, could enable you to earn that money, and more on top from your brokerage commissions alone.’
Rocq eased himself a little further up; he took another sip of his Scotch, and missed the table completely as he put his glass down. Elleck didn’t appear to notice as it dropped and disgorged its contents into the thick pile of the carpet.
‘Does such information interest you?’
‘Of course it does, Sir Monty.’
‘I thought it might. You are familiar with the name Umm Al Amnah?’
‘Very much so.’
‘You have a very good client from there – Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘His father has recently abdicated, and he has now become the ruler of Amnah.’
‘Yes – that’s right – he is the new Emir of Amnah. Hasn’t done us a lot of good so far – I think he has become too embroiled in his ruling to think much about his metal investing. I do have a £5 million discretionary account for him, but the really large punting he does he likes to instruct directly.’
‘Well – this scheme, in any event, involves not him but his country. In a nutshell, two gentlemen, with whom I am acquainted, have secretly been providing the new Emir Missh with troops and secret police to help him against mounting opposition to his family. Unknown to Missh, at the same time, they have been building a stockpile of nuclear mines in Al Suttoh, the country’s port, on the Persian Gulf. One of these gentlemen has recently added a small fleet of oil tankers to his assets. On a given day, in just over one week’s time, one of these tankers, on its way up the Gulf, will be blown to smithereens by a small atomic explosive. There will be nothing left of it but matchsticks. The crew will all have been taken off earlier, secretly, by helicopter, so there will be no casualties.
‘After the detonation, an announcement will be put out from the Palace of Amnah that the country has placed 400 nuclear mines in the Strait of Hormuz, at the mouth of the Gulf. Unless Israel withdraws completely from all occupied territories and frees all Arab prisoners in its jails, then they will not render the mines safe. Effectively, no shipping will be able to get in or out of the Gulf. Over half the world’s oil supply will be stopped.’ Elleck did a gentle karate chop with the side of his right hand, about halfway up his left arm. ‘There will not have been a crisis like it since Suez,’ said Elleck, almost gleefully. He stood up, and went and refilled Rocq’s glass.
Rocq nodded. ‘Very clever. No one would ever have suspected that a tin-pot country like Amnah could have so much clout.’
‘Precisely,’ said Elleck. ‘So the shock will be all the more severe. Roping Libya in adds clout to the menace, because everyone knows that right now Libya doesn’t move an inch without full Russian approval.’ He sat back and took a pull of his drink. ‘You’re an intelligent fellow, Alex – what do you think the result of all this will be?’
‘I don’t know politically – but the price of gold will go through the roof.’
‘Good boy,’ said Elleck. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot in one.’
‘Does Missh know about all this?’
‘Not a thing. And he won’t. Even if he were to find out, he’s got no option but to keep his trap shut. Because of the delicate political situation in the United Arab Emirates, there isn’t a Western country who will dare support him. Russia and Libya and the other anti-West Arab states have been courting him like mad, but both Missh and his father are fundamentally pro-West. Libya and Russia did help them originally gain independence, but since then they have been busy shaking off these countries. I think they are hoping that one day a reconciliation with the West can be made – although of course the Russian propaganda machine has always played up the original bond between Amnah and Libya, and continues to do so at every opportunity.’
Rocq nodded. ‘So you want me to start buying gold for all my clients as fast as I can go?’
‘No,’ said Elleck, ‘that is precisely what I do not want you to do. Gold is at the moment depressed – today’s price is $494 an ounce. I want the price to stay as low as possible. I have a syndicate comprising the key people behind this whole business in Amnah. Between them, they have committed to the syndicate sufficient funds to buy £1,000 million worth of gold.’
Rocq whistled.
‘Buying that amount of gold in one place, in any one day, would be enough to push the price up $10 to $20; but we don’t want to do that. We want to keep it very, very quiet. During the next week I want you to buy that billion pounds worth, but I want you to spread your buying as much around the world as you possibly can. Don’t buy more than a few bars in any one market, from any one dealer. And don’t start until Monday morning of next week – between now and then I’m going to quietly buy a few ounces for myself.’
‘Now in return for doing this, and for keeping your silence, the syndicate will pay you a commission rate of .05 per cent on all the gold you buy, and .05 per cent when you sell. On £1,000 million, your commission when you buy will come to £500,000. When you sell, hopefully gold will have risen from four twenty to six hundred, maybe higher. That £1,000 million will have risen about thirty per cent – to say £1,350 million; .05 per cent of that will be £675,000 – giving you a total of £1,175,000 – enough to clear your debts, and give you £100,000 on top. Does that sound reasonable?’ Rocq nodded his head; it sounded reasonable enough. Anything, right now, would have sounded reasonable enough.
‘The name of the syndicate,’ said Elleck, ‘is “Goldilocks.” An account has been opened for the syndicate here at Globalex, under the name “Goldilocks.”’
‘Someone has a sense of humour,’ said Rocq.
Elleck raised his glass. ‘To your good health.’
Rocq raised his. ‘To Goldilocks. But not the three bears – let’s hope for three bulls.’
‘Goldilocks and the three bulls,’ said Sir Monty Elleck.
It was 7.00 when Rocq staggered out of the elevator into the lobby of 88 Mincing Lane. He was aware that he was completely plastered; h
e was also aware that he had promised to collect Amanda at 6.00 sharp from her office to go to a preview at the Mayor Gallery in Cork Street. A taxi came down Mincing Lane with its ‘For Hire’ sign illuminated. Rocq put up his hand. The taxi slowed and stopped, and Rocq staggered towards it; he put a hand on the bonnet to steady himself, then leaned in through the front window. ‘I want to – shgo – er – I shwant to shgo – er – schback of Harrods.’
‘I’m not taking you in that state, mate – clear off.’ The taxi accelerated down the street, leaving Rocq in a cloud of black diesel fumes.
‘Fucking bastard,’ he yelled, squinting hard to focus. He went and sat down on the doorstep of 88. A wave hit him, and he wasn’t sure whether it was nausea or tiredness. His head was swimming and he felt he was about to pass out; he pushed his eyelids hard together, just leaving a tiny gap; in that manner, he found he could focus and see what traffic was coming down the street. Somewhere, deep inside his drink-riddled body, he felt a good feeling surging up; it had seemed a long time since he had felt good, and he was enjoying the feeling. He had sunk, and he had hit rock bottom. Now he was on the way up.
Somewhere, alongside the good feeling, something else was hatching deep inside him. He knew he wasn’t in any fit state to figure out the finer details right now, but the germ of an idea was there and he knew, instinctively, that the idea was good. He looked forward to sobering up, and to thinking about it more clearly.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Rocq looked up from the doorstep at the uniformed Retired Sergeant-Major ‘Sarge’ Bantry, Globalex’s live-in security guard and night-watchman.
‘Shevenig Sssharge.’
‘You’re going to need a banjo and collection box if you stay there much longer, sir.’
‘Shink I’m going to need one anyway.’
‘Think a good night’s sleep will do yer no harm,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll get you a cab.’
‘Shank you Sarge.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Rocq.’
‘I shink I have had a bit – er – shoo mug ter drink.’
‘Doesn’t do any harm now and again, sir.’
‘Schno – sure you’re right.’
21
The offices of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt were at 124 Lower Thames Street, about 400 yards from 88 Mincing Lane. Behind the brilliantly polished, but bullet-proof, windows of the Adam-designed house were the offices from which Eisenbar-Goldschmidt conducted its £400 million reinsurance business with Lloyds, reimbursing the companies within Lloyds’ hallowed halls on claims on which they had to stump up, ranging from house burglaries, car crashes, skiing accidents, burned out warehouses, shipwrecks, aeroplane disasters, village fetes wiped out through rain, wrong organs removed by surgeons, and a million other items.
The offices looked much like any other city offices. Being in an old house, they were tastefully furnished with plenty of period furniture, some genuine, some reproduction; Victorian prints in simple frames adorned the walls, interspersed with photographs of Concorde, a supertanker, several factories, two high-rise buildings, and Manchester United football club. Part of the reinsurance on all of these was covered by Eisenbar-Goldschmidt.
E-G had offices in many of the world’s capital cities; the controlling shareholder in the firm, although not a widely publicized fact, was the Israeli government. In London, as elsewhere, unknown to most of the staff, the building was also used by Mossad agents as a safe-house.
In a sound-proofed basement office, at nine o’clock Wednesday morning, Daniel Baenhaker picked up the receiver of the direct telephone line to the switchboard of the Mossad, at its Tel Aviv headquarters, the moment it rang.
‘Good morning,’ came Ephraim’s voice through the earpiece.
‘Good morning,’ replied Baenhaker.
‘Still in one piece? Nothing fallen off you since we spoke?’
‘I’m in one piece.’
‘Good. Have you heard of a French company called Lasserre Industriel?’
‘Armaments manufacturers? Also make aircraft?’
‘Correct. Their chairman is a Viscomte Lasserre.’
‘I’ve heard of him, too.’
‘Have you heard of a Greek arms dealer, name of Jimmy Culundis?’
‘Didn’t he supply anti-tank guns to the Egyptians during the Six-Day War?’
‘And just about everything else that they couldn’t get.’
‘I’ve heard it rumoured that in the event of war between the US and Russia, they’d both be buying their spare parts and ammunition from him.’
‘You have the right man,’ said Ephraim.
‘I was assigned once to follow him when he came to England – for a suspected meeting with Hassan of Jordan during Hassan’s official visit here – but it turned out to be Jimmy Mancham, the ex-president of the Seychelles. It was shortly before that bungled coup in the Seychelles in 1981 with Mad Mike Hoare.’
‘Right. Culundis and Lasserre are good friends – no doubt Culundis gets much of his hardware from Lasserre. On Monday evening they had dinner together at Lasserre’s chateau in Bordeaux and were joined by a Jewish gentleman, Sir Monty Elleck. Elleck is chairman and chief executive of a company called Globalex – a very large, privately-owned City of London commodity broking firm. It has branches in several cities around the world. I need to know very badly why they had dinner together, and what their connection is.’
‘Are Lasserre and Culundis clients of Globalex?’
‘That’s one of the things you’ll have to find out. Brokerage is a very private business. But it is important to establish whether they are clients. What I am particularly interested in finding out is whether there is any current connection between these men and a country situated within the United Arab Emirates – although it is independent – called Umm Al Amnah. We know there have in the past been dealings between Jimmy Culundis and Amnah. His company is known to have supplied the armaments to Amnah in the past, and I received a report from the CIA/MI6 World Airport Surveillance that Culundis flew in his private DC-8 into Orly airport on Sunday, directly from Tunquit – Amnah’s only airport.’
‘The English are very private when they talk about money,’ said Baenhaker. ‘Getting information may be extremely difficult.’
‘Globalex is a Jewish firm. The Chairman, Sir Monty Elleck, is an ardent Zionist and has given Israel many millions of pounds over the years; remember that.’
‘Could be helpful. How quickly do you want this information?’
‘Friday.’
‘What? It’s Wednesday now.’
‘I know. There is very little time. You can do whatever you want to get this information – anything at all you do will have our full support. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Then please telephone me on Friday evening; I shall be in my office until eight o’clock your time.’
‘Yes, Sir. Goodbye.’
Baenhaker hung up. and then sat back in his chair. He looked at his watch. It was five past nine, Wednesday. He buzzed on the intercom up to Eisenbar-Goldschmidt’s research department, and asked for all the information they had on Globalex to be brought down to him, then he sat back to think. Globalex was Jewish, so, as a Jew himself, people might be fairly open with him. But he knew British financial institutions: in time, over a hundred alcoholic lunches, you could pry anything you wanted from pretty well anyone – except the Jews. Many of them did not drink, and of those who did, most drank little. They respected the privacy of their clients far more than the British did. But even if there were gentiles in Globalex, willing to drink and then confide all, it would take time, and he did not have time.
To have any chance of getting information legitimately, he needed a lure. The only lure he could think of was money. To a large brokerage house he knew it would require a lot of money to make them interested in talking to him, and an even greater amount still for them to start wooing him for it. But the promise of money could get him in through the door, into
the lion’s den, and with no suspicion.
When the report arrived he scanned down first to find Globalex’s daily trading figures: their average weekly turnover in commodity value was a shade over £75 million. He did a quick sum in his head: their brokerage income would have been around £50,000 per week. He was going to have to talk big to impress these fellows; very big. He looked up Globalex in the phone book, lifted the receiver and dialled the telephone number.
‘Good morning, Globalex’, said a bright voice.
‘Good morning. We are interested in opening an account with Globalex to invest funds for us.’
‘Metals or soft commodities?’ said the voice.
Baenhaker paused, flustered; he wasn’t sure what soft commodities were. ‘Er – metals,’ he said, boldly.
‘One moment, I’ll put you through to metals reception.’
There were two sharp burrs, then another female voice: ‘Globalex Metals.’
‘Good morning. My company is interested in opening an account with Globalex to invest funds for us in metals.’
‘Would you like to make an appointment to come and see us – or would you like someone to come and see you?’
‘I’d like to come to you.’
‘Certainly, sir. When would be convenient?’
‘Would this morning be possible?’
‘I think so, I’ll just check for you.’ There was a short pause. ‘Would eleven o’clock be convenient?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘What name is it, please?’
‘David Bernstein, of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt.’
‘Very good, Mr Bernstein, we will look forward to seeing you at eleven o’clock.’
Baenhaker replaced the receiver and looked down at his battered clothes: he was wearing an open-neck shirt, slacks and cream lace-up canvas shoes. Not the stuff of which investment managers, to which status he had now elevated himself, were made.