Billionaire

  At half past three he walked, slightly unsteadily, into the Honourable James Rice’s office, and sat down beside him; he belched out a mouthful of expensive alcohol vapour.

  ‘Changed your mind about coffee and went into booze, did you, Rocky?’

  Rocq stared at him, and found he wasn’t focussing too well. He sat back and squinted hard. ‘What’s the big news in coffee today?’

  Rice tapped his keyboard and looked at the visual display screen. ‘One thousand and twenty-two. September. Dropped £15 today.’

  ‘So now would be a good time to buy?’

  ‘Fifteen pounds cheaper than this morning.’

  ‘That it for the day?’

  ‘Thought you were the expert, Rocky.’

  ‘I’m serious, Rice, don’t mess me about. I’ve got a nice client for you – a real gentleman – that is, if you want him – would you rather I took him elsewhere?’

  ‘How nice is he?’

  ‘He drinks a lot of coffee.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Reckons he’ll be needing two hundred lots in three months’ time.’

  Rice pursed his lips. Two hundred lots was one thousand tons. At the current price, that was £1,022,000. A damned nice deal to have at the start of what looked to be a quiet week, otherwise. At £10 per lot brokerage, that was £2,000 for Globalex and £200 in commission for himself. ‘I’ll place that on the market for you,’ he said, ‘with the greatest of pleasure. The margin requirements are £102,200, due tomorrow, and the balance of – er – £919,800 due September,’ he said.

  ‘Booked,’ said Rocq.

  Rice wrote out his order slip. ‘Who’s the client?’ he asked.

  ‘Me.’

  Rocq celebrated the sale of his soul to the Midland Bank by taking Amanda to dinner at Le Capo, off West Halkin Street. It was, she pointed out, exactly ten weeks to the day since they had met, on Easter Saturday, at a point-to-point at Cowdray Park in Sussex. She had been arguing furiously with the Tote over why she’d only collected 97p on a 50p win-only bet on a horse which, according to the bookies, had come in at ten to one. Rocq had been at the queue for the Five Pound Win box next to her; he had attempted to explain the way the Tote calculated its payouts. At the end of his precise and accurate lecture she glared at him: ‘When you lose, it hurts, and when you win, you don’t get enough.’

  ‘You got it in one,’ he had said.

  ‘So if you know so much, what are you doing it for?’

  ‘It hurts less than not gambling at all.’

  She frowned at him, and it was then he noticed for the first time her exquisite short straight nose, her beautiful mouth that was pouting cheekily, her blue eyes that were full of life and her fair brown hair streaked with highlights. She was about five foot seven in her high-heeled boots, Phillipe Salvet cord trousers, Jousse shirt and Cornelia James silk scarf. She had put her hands in her pockets and was looking at him. He had forgotten that there were girls on this planet who could look as good as she did. He had stared at her, taking her in, the soft skin on her face that radiated life, the couple of freckles and, apart from two light dabs of mascara, no make-up at all and, for a moment, he had thought back to his busted marriage – his stunning blonde wife who was only stunning after an hour of patience in front of the mirror, who scraped the gunk off each night before bed. He would go out to dinner with a raving beauty, a girl with the aura of an enchantress, a girl who would turn heads at any beauty contest; she was a girl who looked simply, incredibly sexy, until the one time that mattered to Rocq the most: the time when she came to bed. She would never come to bed until after her twenty-five-minute ritual in the bathroom, scraping every last molecule of make-up off her face so that it would not ruin her complexion. Thus it was that the woman, his wife, who filled him with lust at the dinner table arrived in his bed with a face like an uncooked turkey.

  But Amanda was something else. Standing beside the Tote and looking at her under the grey April sky, he could see someone who would look as good waking up in the morning as she ever could in all her evening finery.

  ‘Are you one of those compulsive gamblers?’ she had said, when she had finished frowning; she was already turning, about to walk off. Rocq wanted to stop her, wanted to find the hook, did not want to give her a reply she could merely walk away from.

  ‘Would you like to have a bet with me?’

  ‘Do you always win?’

  He liked her voice; she was well spoken, well-bred without having to flaunt it through her vocal chords.

  ‘I always try to win.’

  ‘But do you succeed?’ She smiled, for the first time.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me; I’ll bet you five pounds you wouldn’t come and have dinner with me tonight.’

  She turned back towards him, grinning almost shyly, then blushed just a fraction. ‘That’s not a fair bet. How can I win that? I’m not free tonight.’

  ‘Are you going to accept the bet?’

  ‘How could I win it?’

  ‘By making yourself free.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘Would you like to come out some other time?’

  She looked at him carefully, looked down at his shoes, then up at his face, then nodded her head. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How about breakfast tomorrow?’

  She grinned. ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Why don’t we compromise and have brunch?’

  ‘Just as long as I don’t have to gamble.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to take you to a casino.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  Rocq toyed with his rich seafood crepe, wishing he’d had something less rich, like a salad, and regretting he’d ordered a tournedos in champagne, cream and mushroom sauce to follow, when he would have happily settled for a plain grilled sole. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on his evening out. Amanda looked more stunning than ever, and he wished he felt more relaxed. He was enjoying the buzz of the two large ice-cold vodka martinis and the taste of the crisp Sancerre, and he looked forward to a night of rummaging through the erotic treasure chest of Amanda’s mind, body and bedroom cupboard, all of which contained a myriad of ideas, artefacts and liquids designed or adapted by her for the purpose of making the long dark hours of the night slip past in the nicest possible way.

  One half of him was bursting to lean forward and tell her what he had done. The other half was very much aware of her loathing of gambling, and advised him, in the firmest possible manner, to keep his trap shut. So he did. Instead, he thought. He did his sums over and over again: for £102,000 he had bought one thousand tons of coffee, at a price of £1,022 a ton. The total value of his purchase was £1,022,000.

  The commodity market is unique in that investors do not usually buy a particular commodity for immediate delivery, but buy it for delivery at a future date. For coffee, three to six delivery months forward is the norm. When buying a ‘future,’ the investor does not have to pay the full price until the delivery date. All he has to put down at the time of purchase is a deposit – normally ten per cent. This is known as ‘buying on margin.’ The investor is free to sell his ‘future coffee’ at any time. If, before the delivery date, the price has risen, and he does sell, he takes his profit not merely on the ten per cent deposit, but on the total value of the purchase. If Rocq’s coffee, which he had bought at £1,022 a ton rose in price to £2,000 a ton and he then sold, on his £102,000 investment he would make a profit of nearly £2 million.

  Conversely, if the price dropped to £500 a ton, he would still be obliged to buy the coffee for £1,022,000, even though he would only be able to sell it for £500,000 – giving him a loss of over half a million pounds. He had put down £102,000; if coffee dropped to £500,000, he would have to pay out a further £400,000; and that was £400,000 more than he had.

  The waiter asked Rocq if he was finished, and removed the almost untouched crepe. Would Senor like something else? A salad, perhaps? Rocq sh
ook his head. He wanted nothing; just some silence, for a few more moments, to do those sums again, for the one hundredth time since this afternoon.

  Theo had reckoned coffee would go to £2,500 a ton, which would put the value of his investment at £2.5 million. He would pay back the £102,000 plus interest to the bank, and have near enough £2,400,000 profit. After tax, that would still leave him comfortably a millionaire. He smiled; he was on his way. He was going to whip Monty Elleck’s ass.

  The 1961 Chateau Lasserre arrived in its wicker basket; Rocq read the label, sniffed the cork, swirled a few drops of wine four times around his glass, held it up to the light, looked at it, sniffed the top of the glass, screwed up his nose, took a mouthful, swilled it around his mouth, opened his mouth a little to let in some air, closed it again, and swallowed. The waiter hovered the bottle over Amanda’s glass, expectantly.

  ‘Corked,’ said Rocq.

  ‘Pardon, Senor?’

  ‘It’s corked. No good.’

  The waiter’s eyes opened a fraction: he hesitated for a moment. ‘Si, Senor.’ He swept away with the bottle.

  ‘I have never seen anyone send back a bottle before,’ said Amanda.

  ‘It was muck.’

  ‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘Why are you in such a ratty mood tonight?’

  ‘I’m not ratty; that’s a very expensive wine, and it’s off. I know the wine well – I actually had some at lunch today – not such a good year and it tasted a hundred times better. I want a nice wine for us – not one that’s off.’

  ‘Well I’m glad something’s caught your attention tonight, because I certainly haven’t.’

  ‘You look terrific,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve told me that tonight; it’s very nice to be told that, very flattering, thank you. You’re looking very dishy yourself; maybe we should start the Alex and Amanda mutual appreciation society. You’re pretty good at flattery, and I’m sure I could learn fast.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve had a heavy day. I’m unwinding a bit slowly.’ He paused. ‘How is work at Messrs Garbutt, Garbutt and Garbutt?’

  ‘Frantically busy. They’ve landed a massive contract for an Arab country – Umm Al Amnah. There’s some mad sheik who’s decided that there should be a squash court for every man, woman and child in the land – and the firm’s been commissioned to design a seventy-five storey high rise squash complex, and the whole thing completely in smoked glass.’

  The waiter reappeared with a belligerent look on his face and a new bottle, without wicker basket, brandished in his fist like a dagger. He cut the seal off the lip with all the grace of a rabbi performing his tenth circumcision of the morning, stabbed the corkscrew into the top as if it were a harpoon, and twisted it several times, like a monkey wrench. Then, with a triumphant gleam in his eye and all the delicacy of a plumber removing a plunger from a blocked lavatory, he wrenched the corkscrew out. The gleam soon faded. Attached to the corkscrew was a mere one-third of the cork. The remaining two-thirds stayed exactly where it had been wedged, on a day back in the early 1960s, when the Beatles were jeered for having long hair and the mini-skirt had not yet been invented.

  There were storm clouds in Amanda’s blue eyes; Rocq had not seen storm clouds in her eyes before. He wanted to defuse the situation, and defuse it quickly. ‘How’s Baenhaker?’ he asked, not because he was interested, but because on the spur of the moment, he couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.

  ‘Why do you always call him “Baenhaker,” Alex? I call him Danny, why can’t you?’

  The waiter now had the bottle gripped between his thighs; he was bent over it at an angle which was provoking curious glances from a number of the other tables around, and was engaged in a long and subdued conversation with the bottle in a language that was not immediately recognizable to either Rocq or Amanda. At the same time, he was gently winding the corkscrew back in.

  ‘Look, Amanda, I don’t wish to be disrespectful about your ex-lover, and as I have never met him, it would be extremely discourteous not to call him by his surname.’

  ‘In that case you should call him “Mr” Baenhaker.’

  ‘Amanda, you’re being ridiculous. If that’s how you feel about him, then I suggest you go back to him.’

  Her eyes began to well with tears, and she shook her head slowly. ‘I love you,’ she said, straining hard not to cry. ‘I love you and I don’t love him. But he was my boyfriend for a long time – over a year and a half, and it’s one hell of a shock to see him in hospital in that condition. Can’t you understand that?’

  Rocq nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to be nicer about him.’

  There was the sudden loud yell of an Italian waiter crushing his index finger between the neck of a claret bottle and the blade of a corkscrew. It was followed in rapid succession by the sound of a cork being forced through the base of the neck of a bottle, followed by the sound of vintage claret, under considerable pressure, shooting out of the neck of a bottle and liberally dousing a party of ill-tempered German film producers.

  ‘You know,’ said Amanda, ‘I think I’d be quite happy to stick to white.’

  10

  General Isser Ephraim, head of the Mossad, whilst heavily guarded at his office and home, relied on nothing but his wits when he was not in these places. He travelled frequently, and used a combination of disguises, spontaneous changes of plan, and illogical routes.

  On this particular mid-June Tuesday morning, having flown the night before from Tel Aviv to Athens, he had hopped onto a Singapore Airlines jumbo making its last stop between the Far East and London, using a passport which identified him as being an air conditioning systems consultant.

  As he emerged into the throng of people at London’s Heathrow Airport, his eyes, behind slightly tinted lenses, worked their way in a matter of seconds over every face that was in the terminal. They relayed to the memory banks of his brain essential details of features, height and stance, information that could at any split second trigger the alarm bells. But on this hot summer morning, General Ephraim did not notice anybody whose business it might be to kill him hanging around this section of the airport. He walked smartly out, climbed into a taxi, and ordered it to take him to the West Middlesex Hospital.

  Twenty minutes later, he was sitting beside Baenhaker’s bed in the large ward. The Mossad agent was conscious and sitting up in bed, looking sullen, and attached by a battery of wires to a large assortment of monitoring equipment.

  Occupying the bed to one side of him was a 90-year-old white-haired man who was sorting out a cardboard box full of used bus tickets and muttering to himself; on the other side was an equally ancient man who appeared, to Ephraim’s trained eye, to have been dead for some hours. The beds on the other side of the ward did not, in Ephraim’s quick summing up, contain anyone who appeared remotely capable of carrying out even the most basic surveillance.

  ‘How are you, Danny?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, you’ll have to ask someone else. I’ve no idea how I am.’ Baenhaker stared at the General for a brief moment, then turned his eyes away.

  Ephraim looked him up and down carefully. Considering the distance he had come, he felt he was entitled to a slightly heartier greeting than this. It further confirmed the feelings he had about Baenhaker. He wanted him out of this hospital and out of this country. ‘The Sister tells me you are making a good recovery.’

  ‘What have you come for, General? To say goodbye?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, General, they don’t reckon I’m going to last another week.’

  Ephraim looked shocked. ‘Sister said they’re going to start you walking again tomorrow.’

  Baenhaker gave him a pathetic look – a look that was full of defeat – and told him not to bother to lie. ‘They reckon I’m crippled for life – if I don’t die from my internal injuries.’

  Ephraim stared at him for a long time, then shook his head. ‘Is that what y
ou’re doing, Danny? Lying in bed, thinking about everything that’s bad, and how it can all get worse? Is that all you’re doing?’

  ‘What else should I be doing?’

  The General leaned forward. ‘You should be working, Danny, that is what you should be doing. You are an agent of the finest Intelligence organization in the world; you committed yourself to working for that organization twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. How long have you been in this hospital, Danny? Eight days is it? Do you know who else is in here? In the other wards?’

  Baenhaker shook his head.

  ‘The Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Defence; two Syrian government ministers; and an Irishman who is a key link-pin with the PLO. All scraped off the same motorway as you during the past few weeks. I’ve been here thirty minutes and I’ve found all that out. You have been here eight days, and what have you found out? Nothing.’

  ‘You do have a slight advantage,’ said Baenhaker, sullenly.

  ‘Who knows best what’s going on in a place like this? It’s the nurses, they’re the ones that know best. They’re going to give information to anyone they feel sympathetic towards. They all feel sympathetic towards you. All you have to do is ask, and they’ll tell you anything you would like to know. You’ve been here eight days, and you haven’t asked them one solitary question, have you?’ Ephraim did not wait for him to reply. He stood up. ‘You want to hang onto your job, then you’d better pull your ass up off that bed, and do it fast.’

  Ephraim marched out of the ward, through the swing doors and downstairs to where the cab was waiting for him. He smiled to himself as he climbed in. It had worked. Five minutes earlier, Baenhaker had been a disintegrating vegetable with nothing to drive him forward. Now Baenhaker was furious, and would be wanting to hit back at him, wanting to hit back badly; and in order to do that, he had to get himself out of that hospital. Ephraim smiled more broadly; just as soon as Baenhaker got himself out of that hospital, he would remove him from England.

  Ephraim checked into the Intercontinental Hotel in Old Park Lane, put his bag in his room, then went down to the foyer and telephoned the Israeli Embassy from a pay phone and made a rendezvous with his head of United Kingdom operatives for that afternoon. Then he asked the doorman for a taxi to take him to Putney, climbed in and, as they pulled off, told the taxi he did not want to go to Putney but, instead, wanted to go to the City of London, to 88 Mincing Lane, where he had a 12.30 luncheon date with Sir Monty Elleck.