Billionaire

by Peter James

  He was worth, personally, Rocq guessed, at least £200 million. Rocq thought about how much money he could accumulate himself. He had made just over £50,000 during the past year, which he knew was because of the client list he had: if he lost any of these clients, his income would drop dramatically. But, assuming he could continue at this rate and even better, he figured that by the time he was forty, the most he could possibly have accumulated, assuming he saved assiduously and invested cautiously, would be, net after tax, in the region of £200,000 – approximately point nought one per cent of Elleck’s wealth. His last thoughts before he slid into an uneasy sleep were that if he was to become rich, really rich, anywhere near as rich as Sir Monty Elleck, then he was going to have to do what Elleck clearly seemed to do. He needed to get hold of inside information about what was going on: some inside information that would tell him when a commodity – any commodity, it didn’t matter which – was about to go through the roof, so that he could buy it, quietly, himself, and make a killing.

  5

  The dimples glinted in the sun as the Dunlop DDH golf ball nestled in the cup of the gold plated tee. In small black lettering down the side of the tee, and across a small area of the golf ball, were the initials T.B-R. The immaculately polished head of the graphite Ping driver wavered uncertainly about three inches off the ground, just behind the ball; it moved slowly up to the ball and sank down onto the ground, the top of the face nestling halfway up the ball. Almost immediately, in a slow, steady sweep, it moved backwards, and then began to arc upwards. Smoothly his shoulders turned until the club was held in the perfect position, pointing directly at the yellow flag four hundred and fifty yards away.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Theo.

  As quickly as it stopped, the club head began to reverse down the same arc in which it had just travelled, accelerating powerfully and twisting, slightly, to approach the ball square-on. It was a text-book golf swing for a full two inches as, by coincidence, in its sweeping descent from the sky, the club found, for this short distance, the correct groove, and then departed from it again. As the head raced the final two feet to the ball it veered, almost imperceptibly, to the left. The far right hand edge of the face connected with the bottom left hand dimple of the ball, sending it tumbling three feet, six inches at a ninety degree angle to where Theo stood, in front of his shattered tee. The club continued its journey and the face ripped into the virgin grass of the first tee, and hurled a foot-long divot out.

  The grossly overweight Italian multi-millionaire emitted a sound not unlike a bull elephant that has been stung in the balls by a wasp and, in a fit of rage, proceeded to hack a further large divot out of the unfortunate grass. He looked around him; a dozen stony-faced golfers returned his gaze. He knew what they were thinking, and they were probably right: they were in for a slow afternoon stuck behind him.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Rocq, trying to conceal his grin. With one hundred pounds on the game, any sympathy was liable to be lacking in any great degree of heart-felt sincerity.

  Rocq’s own ball lay in the centre of the fairway, two hundred and ten yards ahead; he looked down from the first tee of the Dyke Golf Club, across the panorama of Brighton and Hove, towards the tall chimneys of the power station at Shoreham Harbour and the hazy sea beyond.

  ‘Coffee, you reckon?’

  ‘For sure,’ said Theo, tugging his three-iron out of his Gucci golf bag and strutting to the edge of the tee, where the ball lay. He lowered his head forward so that he could see the ball over the vast hulk of his stomach, pulled the club back, and swung it ferociously forward. A divot travelled twenty yards; the ball remained stationary. He swung again. In a flurry of grass and mud, the ball travelled in a straight line, towards the pin, for a good nine feet. The Italian grunted and, brandishing his three-iron like a tomahawk and tugging his trolley behind, as if he were a mother tugging a reluctant child, he stomped off forwards.

  Rocq and Barbiero-Ruche walked up to the ball; the Italian scooped it up in his fist. ‘I concede ze ’ole.’ He put the ball into his pocket, and the two of them marched off down the fairway.

  ‘Why are you so sure about coffee?’ asked Rocq.

  The Italian stopped and stuck his three-iron back into his bag before answering. Rocq eyed his grotesque shape for some moments, a shape that had been bought and paid for by the Italian’s now legendary capabilities in the world’s commodity markets. Out of the ten most spectacular rises on the world’s commodity markets in the previous ten years, Barbiero-Ruche had published articles, well in advance, predicting not only the rises but, in nine of the ten, the exact days on which the commodities began to rise and the exact dates on which they began to fall. His book, Me and My Frozen Pork Belly might not have knocked any of the international best-sellers off their perches, but there weren’t many commodity brokers in the world who couldn’t quote at least half a dozen lines from it.

  ‘Brazil supplies approximately one third of the world’s coffee – last year her output was two and a half million pounds of coffee.’

  They reached Rocq’s ball, and he picked it up; they carried on walking.

  ‘Ze ’arvest is in July. Two things can kill coffee – coffee rust disease, and early frost. Even viz a full ’arvest from Brazil, there will still be a shortage of coffee for ze nex’ year. Ze reasons are increased demand, together with ze coffee rust in several other major producing countries – particularly in Columbia, Mexico, El Salvador and Ecuador. So anyway, ze price must go up.’ The Italian stopped for a moment, pulled up his trouser leg, and scratched his ankle. Then they continued, and approached the second tee. ‘I have ze very elaborate computer system in Milano, and I ’ave just had analysed all the weather reports for Brazil for this time of year for the past fifty-five years – as far back as there are records. Ze pattern is exactly as in 1976, when there was a disaster because of early frost in June. You go.’ Barbiero-Ruche waved his hand.

  Rocq took his driver and bent down, teeing his ball high; he then stood well back from the ball, swung the club gently a few times, then took a full, hard, practice swing; the bottom of the head cracked across the surface of the grass on the exact spot at which Rocq had aimed. Satisfied, he stepped forward, took careful aim at the marker pin, beyond which the fairway dipped down, out of sight, and steadied the club head behind the ball; he took a slow backswing, winding himself up extremely taut, then brought the club hurtling around and down in a near perfect stroke. The sweet-spot of the club face hit the exact rear centre of the ball, momentarily flattening it into a thin saucer-shaped object as it lifted it clear of the tee. As it sprung back into its round shape, it accelerated for one hundred yards low across the ground and then began an arcing climb for a further hundred yards, and then descended gently for thirty yards, bounced on the dry grass, and then rolled along the fairway, curving almost imperceptibly to the left, and then halted. Rocq stood, club held out in the air in front of him, and watched the ball drop out of sight behind the marker with not a little pleasure.

  ‘Shot!’ said Barbiero-Ruche, with only the tiniest trace of malice in his voice. He pulled his Ping driver out of his bag and then surveyed the fairway; to the right was a clump of trees, and he eyed them nervously. ‘How far do the trees go?’

  ‘Quite a long way. Keep to the left of the marker – you’ll be in trouble if you go anywhere near them, because there’s thick rough to the side of them.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the Italian, uncertainly. He shot the trees another furtive glance, stabbed his tee in the ground and placed his ball on top. He then stood back, and began to line himself up. To be absolutely safe, he turned a forty-five degree angle away from the trees; if he hit the ball straight, it would go off the left hand side of the fairway.

  He made three practice strokes, each ripping a six-inch divot out of a different section of the grass, and then he lined his club head up behind the ball. Almost in slow motion, he swung the club back and as it swung, he swayed along with it, so that by the time the club head wa
s at the top of the backswing, he himself was leaning at almost forty-five degrees to the ground. Then, with a loud grunt, he let rip at the ball with all his force, unwinding his body, swirling his wrists, wrenching his shoulders down, blistering the club head through the air and swaying his body back with one sharp jerk. The club head, travelling well over one hundred miles an hour, passed six inches over the top of the ball, and ripped into the virgin grass two feet in front of it.

  Barbiero-Ruche spat out a mouthful of air and angrily smacked his club head down again, ripping out yet more grass. Rocq winced, and was glad they weren’t on the first tee, in full view of everyone. If word got back to Paul Longmore, the club pro, of the calibre of guest he was bringing along, he had a feeling his days at this club would be numbered.

  The Italian calmed down, and lined himself up again for another attempt; this time, the club face connected with full force with the ball, which, along with the remains of his shattered tee, hurtled into the air.

  ‘Shot!’ said Rocq.

  They both watched as the ball climbed, Rocq with mounting glee and the Italian with mounting gloom, as it began to veer sharply to the right, traversing the fairway and then, as sharply as it had climbed, it began to drop, straight into the very midst of the trees on the right. They both stood in silence as the ball dropped out of sight and then, after a moment, there was the resounding crack of a ball bouncing off a tree trunk, followed by the lesser crackling sound of a ball tumbling into thick undergrowth.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ The Italian took a deep breath, put down another ball and again took aim. He despatched this ball to a spot in the same trees, which, Rocq and he guessed, was within six inches of his first ball. ‘I concede ze ’ole’, said the Italian, angrily ramming his club back into his bag. Rocq turned his face away so that the Italian could not see his grin, and they again set off down the fairway.

  ‘How sure are you about the frost?’ asked Rocq.

  ‘For sure, frost. It is impossible, with these conditions, that there cannot be frost. Impossible. You should buy a little coffee yourself. It’s going to go – how you say – bottoms up?’

  ‘“Through the roof,” Theo, is the right expression.’

  ‘Okay, for sure, through the roof.’

  Three hours later and one hundred pounds richer, Rocq climbed into the driving seat of his Porsche. Barbiero-Ruche lowered his dejected hulk into the passenger seat. ‘Stupid game, golf,’ he repeated for the tenth time. His tally for the round had been two pars, one eagle, three nines, twelve unfinished holes and sixteen lost balls.

  ‘You’ll have the chance to get it back tomorrow, Theo.’

  ‘For sure,’ he said, not at all sure.

  The Porsche took off, and the Italian winced as the weight of his stomach pressed against his backbone; he clawed nervously for the seat-belt. ‘You have a pilot’s licence for this thing?’

  Rocq grinned. They tore down the steep hill, then he slammed the gear lever down into second, and stood on the brakes. As they started to enter the sharp left-hander, he pressed the accelerator down hard; there was a pause for a second, and then the turbo began to deliver its pound of flesh. The limpet grip of the tyres held them rock steady as they accelerated out of the bend at eighty miles an hour. The Italian’s eyeballs bulged. They came up behind a slow-moving car, and Rocq was forced to brake hard and sit behind it as they went into a blind corner.

  ‘Who’s this girl you fixed, Rocky?’ said the Italian, brightening up considerably at the thought that he wasn’t necessarily going to be wiped out in a smash in the next few moments.

  An old friend, Theo. Bangs like a shit-house door.’

  ‘She look good?’

  ‘Stunner. Just how you like them – ’bout five-eight, long blonde hair, blue eyes, gobblers lips.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Mary. She’s got a great sense of humour.’

  ‘Could be better than the golf, eh?’

  ‘Maybe you’d better start practising, fat man.’

  She was five-foot two, with short dark hair, brown eyes, and her name was Deirdre. If she had a sense of humour, she did a good job of keeping all trace of it from her face when she was introduced to her bedmate for the weekend. The expression on her face told one thing and one thing only: the two hundred and fifty pounds she was getting paid for giving Theo a good time for the next couple of nights was not enough.

  ‘What happened to the blonde hair?’ Theo asked Rocq as he followed him through into the drawing room of Rocq’s cottage.

  ‘Must have dyed it,’ hissed Rocq.

  ‘And her eyeballs too?’

  ‘Any more complaints, and you’re in the garage with a pot of vaseline and the local cat.’

  ‘Which way is it?’ asked the Italian.

  ‘Come on, Theo, I think she’s stunning,’ said Rocq, lying through his teeth, and making a mental note to sue a certain madame when he got back to London on Monday.

  ‘You always fix me with dogs, Rocky.’

  ‘Shut up, she’ll hear you.’

  ‘I think you should hang her out of the window – scare the birds off your garden!’

  ‘Shut up. What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘Deirdre?’ said Rocq, turning to her.

  ‘I’ll have a beer,’ she said.

  Rocq went into the kitchen; Amanda was rummaging in a cupboard. ‘Have you ever cooked in here, Alex?’

  ‘Think I boiled an egg once.’

  ‘What in – an ashtray or an empty bottle?’

  ‘Theo’s tummy button.’

  She grinned. ‘That’s a beauty you fixed him up with.’

  ‘Don’t think she’s too crazy about him either.’

  ‘Where the hell did you drag her up from?’

  ‘Twenty-two stone Italians aren’t in big demand.’

  ‘I think she’s on the game.’

  Rocq didn’t want to tell her she was right. ‘Rubbish. She’s a friend of an old friend of mine – I had a very nice bird lined up for him, and she blew out at the last minute.’

  ‘Lucky Theo.’

  Rocq’s cottage, in the hamlet of Clayton a few miles outside Brighton, was listed in the Doomsday Book; it had withstood everything that had been chucked at it for the past seven centuries, but now the tiny building was in grave danger of having met its match.

  Through the eighteen-inch-thick flint wall, Theo sounded as if he was trying to blow up some gigantic balloon whilst having a red-hot poker thrust up his back-side. This sound was punctuated every seven seconds by what sounded to Rocq and Amanda remarkably like a knight in armour doing somersaults on the bare springs of a trampoline. Throughout the shaking cottage, books were falling off shelves, crockery was crashing to the floor. Suddenly, the Italian emitted a series of ear-piercing wails out into the sleeping Sussex countryside and then for a few minutes all went quiet. A similar thing had happened half an hour ago, and again, an hour before that.

  ‘Seems the fat man’s got over his hang-up about brunettes,’ said Rocq.

  ‘I’d noticed,’ said Amanda.

  Rocq slid his arms around her and moved over towards her.

  ‘You’re not feeling horny, are you?’

  ‘Yes – aren’t you?’

  ‘Not with that racket – and I’m very tired, Alex.’

  ‘What’s the matter? You haven’t been looking happy all evening.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Must be something. Did that girl upset you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Theo?’

  ‘No. I like Theo.’

  ‘Something’s upset you.’

  There was a long silence before she spoke: ‘It’s Danny,’ she said at last.

  ‘Baenhaker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he been calling you?’

  ‘No. I got a call from a hospital – the West Middlesex – this morning. He’s been in a car smash. I went to see him this afternoon. It happened on Monday
– he’s been in a coma for three days – only came out of it yesterday. He’s in intensive care still.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m not really sure – went through the central reservation of the M4.’

  ‘We drove down the M4 on Monday.’

  ‘Oh Alex – he looked so terrible.’ She started to cry, and he hugged her tight. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t want to ruin our weekend.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m sorry about Baenhaker too.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. An ominous clanking started up again in the next bedroom.

  ‘You know,’ she said, brightening a little, ‘I think I prefer that rubber-freak friend of yours from Toronto – he’s quieter!’

  6

  Somewhere in the murky half-light in the whirling sandstorm that had been the past forty years of his life, something deep inside his brain had snapped. Sometimes, on the shrink’s couch, he looked back into the vortex, but terror always made him turn away.

  General Isser Aaron Ephraim, head of the Mossad, Israel’s secret intelligence service responsible for overseas intelligence, had thought that maybe, as the years advanced, it would go away. But now he was sixty-four years old, and it had shown no signs of going away. The hatred that burned inside him, as he lay there, burned as fierce as the day it had begun, on a hot, dry day in 1938, when he’d returned with his father to the farmhouse, after a day at the market in Shedema, to discover the butchered bodies of his mother, two brothers, three sisters, grandfather and grandmother, victims of a Syrian vengeance raid.