by J. S. Monroe
“Fortune favours the brave,” Charlotte whispered in my ear.
I tried not to think about what I was doing. I was still coming to terms with the ease with which the old man had just lost forty-five big ones. Charlotte was ordering my chips for me, making them into neat, equal piles.
“Do you play polo, Douglas?” Chuckster suddenly asked.
I laughed but somehow made it sound like a cough. Charlotte was in trouble, too.
“Can’t say I do, Chuckster.”
“You see, I was wondering whether you and your lovely lady friend here would like to come along and watch a game. Next weekend perhaps. If the weather’s bad, why not come up anyway.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Fortunately Charlotte stepped in, ending the stunned silence.
“That’s a lovely idea, very sweet,” she said, pausing. Come on, I thought, but… “But Dutchie’s allergic to horses. Something in the mane.”
“Really? Who’s Dutchie?” Chuckster asked, confused.
“Douglas, I mean Douglas,” she said quickly.
“It’s the same with cats. I just start sneezing and can’t stop,” I said.
“Oh dear. You poor fellow. Charlotte, why don’t you come up first and Douglas could follow later, once the all clear bell has sounded and they’re safely back in stables. Good idea?”
He was a persistent bugger, was Chuckster. Charlotte valiantly made excuses for the next few weekends while I won again, this time with my own birthday. In an act of recklessness, I had put ten chips on twelve and had pocketed £350. Next go I put it all on red, trying to rid myself of my capitalist gains, and duly doubled my money with another twelve. It was getting embarrassing. Toxo came and joined us, along with Pete, who was looking forlorn and broke.
“Hey, my main man,” Toxo said, putting an arm on my shoulder. “You’re breaking the bank.”
“What you should do now is put half of it on red again,” Pete said earnestly. “If it’s black, stay with red and put it all on. Keep doubling if you lose. It’s the only way.”
“So speaks a man who’s just lost four grand. Ignore him. He’s full of systems, full of shit. Sorry,” Toxo added politely, for Charlotte’s benefit.
I was enjoying myself too much to listen to Pete and his systems. My own method was entirely random, inspired by ignorance, infallible. Chuckster left me to it. Charlotte put her hand conspicuously high up on my warm thigh, watching, encouraging, telling me I was doing just fine.
At 1 a.m. voices were raised at the far end of the hall. I looked up to see the doormen escorting the man who had been playing blackjack on his own. He was being walked to the door, silently, offering no resistance.
“What’s all that about?” I asked Pete, who was still trying to fathom my system.
“I was watching him earlier. He might have been counting cards.”
“Cheating?”
“Technically it’s not. He’s just trying to predict which cards are still in the shoe.”
“So where’s the problem?”
“Casinos don’t like it. Card-counters can wipe out a week’s profit in one sitting.”
I watched as the man calmly put on his coat and left. I wished I had talked to him.
*
By 2 a.m. I had made £6,000. Charlotte had to pull me away to the taxi. It could have been more, of course, but I had lost £2,000 in a single, reckless bet just after 1 a.m. I had enjoyed myself, particularly after Pete explained that casinos, in the generous spirit of free market capitalism, always ensured that the odds were stacked firmly against the punter. How could they lose? And yet here I was making a small fortune. That made me feel better. Casino as enemy. I could live with that.
As we got into our taxi, however, the door held open for us by yet another man in a uniform calling me sir, the buzz faded. Behind our taxi a black executive Volvo estate pulled up. A man in a dinner jacket and white silk scarf stepped out, and walked into the casino. More idle rich.
“You were right. Stick to bingo,” Charlotte teased. We were sitting at opposite ends of the wide cab seat. Hostilities had been resumed.
“Six thousand pounds,” she continued. “My, that should stoke the fires of the revolution for a while.”
“Shut it. Alright? You’ve made your point.”
She sat silently for a few seconds, but she was unable to resist continuing.
“Chuckster’s a nice man, isn’t he? A real sweetie.”
I put my head against the cold metal of the cab, feigning sleep. I didn’t have much of a case. I knew that, she knew that. If I had lost £6,000, that would have been an act of obscene opulence. But I had won it. Walked in with nothing, come out wads up. Beaten the system, just like the card-counter, only I hadn’t been thrown out.
What would Annalese have said? I could hear her now, untroubled, practical. “Just don’t get mugged.”
19
On Thursday morning, after three days of dealing, something else happened which troubled my proletarian roots. Just before ten-thirty, I walked out of the office for a quick break and returned to find the dealing room in an advanced state of panic. Even Debbie, usually insensate, was agitated. Pete looked up briefly.
“The Bundesbank’s cut its Lombard rate by half a per cent,” he said.
I stared at him, bewildered. The news was delivered with an urgency usually reserved for declarations of war. Are they invading too? I settled down in front of my screens. Pete was lost in his own world. If only he understood women the way he did numbers he would be getting laid every lunch-time. Lying on top of his rucksack was a paperback, The Newtonian Casino – How Algorithms Can Break the Bank. Sometimes it was best just to accept defeat. I had counted my winnings three times yesterday, in my room, away from Charlotte.
Pete broke into my thoughts, told me to call up Bank Austria, find out what they were bidding in six years. Two frantic minutes later, I was staring at the screen, exhausted.
“That’s what I call a home run,” Pete said, standing over me. “If you were on commission…”
“… Am I?” I asked, despising my own greed.
“Welcome to the club,” an Afrikaans voice said behind me.
Briggs’s hands were on my shoulders again. I spun around instinctively, checked myself. The chairman winked and walked over to sterling.
£50,000 profit in approximately 120 seconds. Slower than the spin of the wheel but more addictive in its mayhem.
Confused, even richer, I waited for more instructions, but Pete was less forthcoming. It was his commission I was now taking. I was on my own. If that’s the way he wanted to play it…
Credit Suisse was flashing up 58 offer in four years. Pete was talking on the phone, taking another message. It sounded alright, nothing too extreme.
“Toxo, how are we in fours?” I asked.
“So so. We could do with some more. What are they offering?”
“58.”
“Check with Pete.”
Pete’s whole body was now turned away from me, shielding his screens, safeguarding his knowledge.
I bought them. I don’t know why and I didn’t like the enthusiasm of the seller’s response.
“What the fuck?” Pete said, looking at me, then his screen.
“I just bought some four years.”
“I know. Why?”
“You were on the phone,” I replied, distracted.
“Buying fours. We’re over, well over. Shit. What were you doing?”
I wasn’t listening. I hadn’t been for the past couple of seconds, not since Reuters had flashed up a new pitch from Kiruna Kredit: “SEK/ESP 3 M SWP32/28.”
“There’s your bank again, Douglas,” Toxo called out. “Crazy deal, man. They must be nuts.”
I stared at the screen. Pete had seen it too but had taken a call on line six. He waved his hand in my direction, shaking his head. “Ignore them,” he said tersely, his hand over the receiver.
*
Without hesitating I typed in
“NOT FOR ME TKS BIFN.” Pete looked at me, puzzled, but was drawn into his telephone conversation again. I looked at my watch – 10.35 a.m. – and wrote it down. Even I knew that kronas against pesetas was not your regulation deal.
Things calmed down around 1 p.m. I was back to spectating, on Briggs’s advice, so I took a different gamble and offered to buy in the sandwiches. I needed to get to a phonebox as much as anything, to talk to Charlotte and tell her what had happened. She had given me a number in case of emergency. Kiruna showing up on my screen constituted something, I just wasn’t sure what.
I walked down Lombard then Prince’s Street, careful not to swing too close to Pret A Manger, and thought about Charlotte. What did she do all day? It sounded so boring, pretending to be in public relations. The whole PR business was a pretence, wasn’t it? Perhaps she had wanted to be the dealer – she would be a lot better in the office than I was, less awkward around men, better on the phone – and then decided it was too dangerous. Charlotte prodded risks first, turned them in her hand, dropped them if there was a hint of unpredictability.
I stepped off the pavement to cross over to Charlie’s Place, but I got no further than the kerbstone. The ground shuddered. I knew immediately what it was. The bang followed quickly, more of a thud in my chest than a crack. Close, maybe five streets away. I looked over towards Moorgate and saw oily smoke billowing from an office block. My stomach tightened as I thought of Annalese halved in the street, the store manager, the silence. Then I heard the plate windows, incessant as a waterfall. I turned to the wall, pushed against it with one hand and vomited.
Inhaling air hard and repeatedly, I forced myself to walk down the street in the direction of the blast. The traffic had slowed. Drivers were pulling over, winding down windows. One car, a Fiesta, three-point-turned and drove off in the opposite direction, the driver pale with shock. I could hear distant sirens growing louder, shouting, screams, the calling cards of panic.
I kept myself walking against the flow of running people. As I turned into Moorgate, I saw enough to know that I could go no further: an office block shredded and smoking, all its windows gone, curtains hanging out like dead men’s tongues. A fire was catching in the reception area. People were running in most directions, some were lying still in the street, tossed like acrobats out of their building. One man was stumbling, head in hands, jacket ripped, lost.
Jostled and knocked, I walked quickly back down Prince’s Street. I had to get to a phone, tell Charlotte there had been a bomb, that I’d replied to Kiruna. Had I triggered the explosion? The thought lodged itself just behind my forehead, pressing outwards, trying to search out some guilt. Kiruna had nothing to do with the bombings; it was just a small operation in the Middle East. It was reasonable for it to deal solely on days like today, when there was easy money to be made.
I found a phonebox in Cornhill, and waited while a man told a loved one that he loved them even more. He kept the door open for me, and gave an unfocused look.
“You alright?” I asked.
“I’m alive,” he said, pausing at his own profundity.
Charlotte was engaged. I tried three times in quick succession, then slammed my fist on the flat shelf next to the phone. I sensed people gathering outside. I didn’t want to turn around because I knew I would have to let them in. Again I tried and again she was engaged. I started talking anyway, ignoring prim instructions to replace the handset.
“These people behind me think I’m talking to someone. Let me introduce myself. You killed my woman. If you hadn’t done that, I might not have made a few grand this morning. Thank you. These people might not be queuing now. You’re dead. D’you hear me? I know your game.”
I tried Charlotte again and got through.
“There’s been another bomb.”
“I know. Where are you?”
“I’m in a phonebox.”
“Are you alright?”
“I think so.”
“Big?”
“There’s not much left of Moorgate.”
“Be at the house as soon as you can. Walter’s meeting us there at two.”
“What do I say to…”
The phone went dead.
20
Walter and Charlotte were in the sitting room when I arrived, watching the news on television. The low table in front of them was littered with sandwich wrappings, some glasses and a bottle of red wine. One of the sandwich packets was unopen, presumably left for me. I couldn’t even look at it. No one said anything as I sat down on the sofa next to Walter. He smelt of alcohol. I watched the footage, scanning the background as a reporter spoke live from the scene. Eighteen people dead.
My journey back had been quick but stressful. Twice I thought I was going to be sick. Since the Oxford Street bomb I had felt little or none of the trauma the hospital had prepared me for. My brain had processed the shock in manageable soundbites. But now the scenes were repeating themselves uncut, loop-taped.
We sat in silence listening to a statement by a nameless man from MI5. The bombers, he said laconically, were near to being found.
“I need some good news,” Walter said, turning to me. “That guy’s lying.” Walter was wearing a light grey suit and had taken off the jacket and slackened his tie. He seemed tired, older.
“I made fifty grand for JKA this morning,” I began. “And a few for myself.”
They both looked at me silently. What were they worried about? I had been the one they had nearly blown up. Twice.
“Not many people walk away from two bombs you know,” I said.
“Dutchie, we’re running out of time,” Charlotte said. “All of us.”
I looked at her and then pulled out a sheet of paper from my jacket pocket.
“This is a print-out from December 22nd, the day Samantha West blew herself up in Oxford Street. At 11 a.m., she was contacted by an unknown outfit called Kiruna Kredit, who offered her Swedish kronas against pesetas. She said ‘Not for me thanks, bye for now’, the way we wankers do in the City. Two hours later a bomb went off. One week earlier, 15th December, 1 p.m., Kiruna also made contact with her. Again she turned them down. Same message: ‘Not for me thanks, bye for now.’ Three hours later a bomb went off. Those are the only two times Kiruna has attempted to deal with JKA in the last month. Except today. At 10.35, they offered Swedish kronas against pesetas, same deal, 32/28 over three months.”
“What did you do?” Charlotte asked.
“I typed ‘Not for me thanks. Bye for now’. The way you do.”
“You should have ignored it.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to see what happened. Two and a half hours later a bomb went off.”
“And killed eighteen people.”
“Dutchie,” Walter said, speaking slowly. “Are you sure this bank has never contacted JKA on any other days?”
“I’ve only gone back a month.”
“Was there anything exceptional about the markets today?”
“The Germans cut their Lombard this morning,” Charlotte said, before I could answer. “Half an hour early. There was a lot of activity across all currencies.”
“What about the other dates?” Walter continued, still looking at me.
“I’ve checked them,” I lied. “The markets were quiet.”
“We need to stick some more on these guys. They might just be opportunists. Have they been offering around Swedish kronas to everybody?” Walter asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“To find out we’d have to go through the records of every bank in the City,” Charlotte added.
Walter pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his brow. He then leant forward, poured himself a glass of wine and half-heartedly offered the bottle to us. Neither of us moved and he sat back.
“Okay, let’s take this one stage at a time,” he began. “It’s a big assumption, but supposing Dutchie is right and Kiruna is coordinating the bombers, talking to them
on Reuters 2000. They could be doing that from anywhere in the world. We need to make contact with the guys on the ground.”
“But we don’t know who else is receiving the messages,” Charlotte said, lighting a cigarette. There was a pause in the conversation as we watched her shake her hair and exhale.
“Why don’t we send a message ourselves,” I said, sitting forward. I suddenly had an image of Dan calling to Pete, the keys arcing across the room. Charlotte and Walter turned to me, recognising I might be on to something, but not sure exactly what. I wasn’t certain myself. “We set up on our own,” I continued. “Get into Reuters. Sign ourselves on as Kiruna Kredit.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Walter asked, losing interest again.
“JKA has got a contingency dealing room. They all have.”
“And?” he said, still not convinced.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I was losing patience with him. He hadn’t come up with any solutions himself. “We could deal from there.”
Charlotte looked at Walter, who dimpled his chin and looked away. “It might work,” she said. “If we could get into the system.”
“Next week,” I continued, “we contact every bank in the City, offering them Swedish kronas against pesetas. Just like they did today. Same rate. See who bites. Someone did.”
“Hey, hold up,” Walter said. “We might not have the budget for this, even if it’s a good rate.”
“It’s only money,” I said. “Anyway, we wouldn’t have to buy or sell anything. We’d just send out the messages.”
“But what would we be saying to them?” Charlotte asked. “What exactly does bidding or not bidding kronas against pesetas mean?”
She looked at Walter again, who was lost in thought, tugging at the loose flesh of his throat.
“You’re the experts,” I said. “As a novice I’d say it means if you buy the deal, it’s your turn with the gun-powder. If you say not for me thanks, it’s somebody else’s go.”
“There is one problem with that,” Charlotte said. “On the day Samantha West turned it down, she blew herself up.”