Billionaire

by Peter James

  The Citroen Pallas swept out of Bordeaux airport and onto the Libourne road. Although it was a clear summer’s evening and in spite of the falling dusk it was still quite light, the chauffeur was having great difficulty in seeing, because of the incessant clouds of Upman corona smoke which blew over his head from the back seat, and cascaded down in front of his eyes.

  He turned the air conditioning fan on full blast and slid the windows up and down a few times, but the plump greasy man in the back seat did not seem to get the message. Jimmy Culundis was deep in thought; he sat with his eyes closed, cigar jammed in his mouth, drawing in and belching out smoke at evenly spaced intervals of eight seconds.

  Culundis was in a good mood; the few people that knew him well found it hard to tell when he was in a good mood, because he always appeared cheerful, regardless of his mood. His business with Missh in Umm Al Amnah had been concluded in much less time than he had thought, and he had been able to fly to France on the Sunday, watch his horse, Guided Missile, win the Arc de Triomphe at Longchamps by fourteen lengths, and still get back to Athens in time to spend Sunday evening with his wife and seven children.

  Culundis led a dual life, which he enjoyed, and which seemed, for him, to work. He was still married to Ariane, the fisherman’s daughter from the village where he was born. He had only known her as a child when he was in his teens, but he had spotted her one day when he had returned to his village to visit his elderly parents, and had married her. She was pretty and homely, and not interested in a jet-set lifestyle, although she was happy to entertain any of the friends or colleagues that Culundis brought home. She had not wanted a grand house, and so, for their home, Culundis had bought a modest house, although fitted with almost every luxury money could buy, overlooking the fishing port where they had both been born.

  Whilst he did business and played in the most expensive pastures of the world, Ariane was happy to remain in Greece, with the children. Although he saw her, on average, less than one evening a week, still, after seventeen years of marriage, he looked forward to those evenings at the one residence he owned, among all the others, that he called his home.

  The horn of the Citroen shrieked, and the car swerved violently to avoid a tractor that had just shot straight out into the main road from a cart track, the driver still clearly of the opinion that the motor law of priorité à droite continued to apply to main road intersections with cart-tracks.

  ‘Imbecile,’ said the chauffeur, from somewhere inside the cloud of smoke.

  Culundis thought about the word, ‘imbecile’. It was a good word, he decided, to describe Abr Qu’Ih Missh, the thirty-eighth Emir of Amnah; the word applied equally well to his father, the now-deposed thirty-seventh Emir. They were both fools, in their different ways; but the old boy had strength of character, he thought. The son was weak; very weak. Culundis smiled. He hadn’t slept on the Friday night after Missh had come down and given him the news; he had spent the entire night on the telephone, giving orders. For not only did Culundis have access to any type of military equipment he might want, he also had access to the finest mercenary soldiers in the world: an almost instant army, ranging from prematurely retired English and American top-ranking officers, including generals and brigadiers, to disenchanted SAS soldiers, to freshly trained privates. And it was not only soldiers he had on his books. He had strategists, military planners, economists, politicians. In short, he had all the personnel, ready and willing at the drop of a small hat containing a large cheque, to go anywhere in the world, to any country, to soldier it, police it, and govern it, for whomsoever’s benefit Jimmy Culundis instructed them.

  During the long Friday night, Culundis had, on Missh’s telephone bill, assembled, briefed and ordered the despatch to Umm Al Amnah of one such complete instant armed force. With the exception of himself, Umm Al Amnah had not got a friend in the world. Culundis grinned again; he reckoned Emir Abr Qu’Ih Missh would go a long, long way to keep that friendship.

  15

  When Culundis and Elleck arrived at Chateau Lasserre, they were formally introduced, in turn, to Mademoiselle Nicole Varasay, the Viscomte’s current live-in delight; to each other, since they had never met; and to an aperitif comprising a mixture of non-vintage Bollinger champagne and a framboise liqueur. By the end of their first quarter of an hour in the chateau, they had decided that Mademoiselle Varasay was gorgeous, that they did not particularly like each other, and that the drink was lethal.

  There are not many people who have a portrait of an ancestor painted by either Boucher, Fragonard or Winterhalter. Viscomte Lasserre had portraits by all three. What made it all the more remarkable was that in his magnificent dining room, they looked about as insignificant as a trio of china flying ducks.

  The dining room was 125 feet long; one wall was a series of arches containing leaded-light French windows, which were opened onto a balcony overlooking the seventy-two acre lake. On another wall was a marble fireplace, twelve feet high and fourteen feet wide. Although it was midsummer, a log fire burned cheerily, fanned by a cooling breeze that came in off the lake. The room was only faintly lit, by candles burning in the massive crystal chandelier above the table.

  The inlaid rosewood table at which they sat had extension leaves which would take it to ninety feet in length, enabling it to seat seventy-five people in comfort; but tonight there were no leaves in the table, only the two semicircular ends joined together, making a round table that enabled the four diners to sit cozily together, but with ample room. On either side of the Viscomte sat Culundis and Mademoiselle Varasay, and between them sat Elleck. As Elleck had become progressively more sloshed on the champagne cocktail, he had increasingly ogled Mademoiselle Varasay. She wore a shimmering ice-blue gown completely off her shoulders, and only just over the top of her nipples; her sun-tanned bare arms, chest, and almost bare breasts, her stunning face and sensuous mouth were almost more than Elleck could bear, together with the fact she seemed to be taking such an interest in him, an interest that seemed to him to go well beyond the formalities of common courtesy.

  Their first course was freshwater crayfish drunk with a ’69 Corton Charlemagne, followed by truffles en croute, drunk with a ’62 Haut Brion, followed by rack of lamb grilled with fine herbs, drunk with a ’47 Latour, followed by a raspberry pavlova, drunk with a Chateau d’Yquem 1959.

  As a mouthful of the sweet rich Sauternes slipped down his throat, Elleck suddenly felt a hand feel its way over the front of his trousers, find his fly and, one at a time, undo the buttons; he gulped and looked startled at Mademoiselle Varasay. In her right hand, she was holding her glass; she raised it just a fraction at him, drank from it and put it down. The hand slipped inside his trousers, found the gap in his Marks and Spencer Y-Fronts, prised it apart and began to encircle the only three things in the world that Elleck truly cherished that weren’t in a bank safety deposit box in Switzerland. Squirming with a mixture of dread, embarrassment and sensuous pleasure, he swung his eyes to the Viscomte, who was engaged in conversation with Culundis and had apparently noticed nothing, nor had Culundis. He tried desperately to think of something to say to Mademoiselle Varasay, but could think of nothing. The fingers began a short stroking action.

  The Viscomte turned his head and addressed Elleck: ‘I think, Monty, it is time now that we began to talk some business. Both you and Jimmy have come a long way to be here tonight – Jimmy knows why he is here, but you do not.’

  The stroking action continued; Elleck shot a desperate sideways glance at Mademoiselle Varasay, but she did not bat an eyelid, and not one portion of her that was above the table was visibly moving in any way that was out of the ordinary. The Viscomte turned to her. ‘My darling, I do not think it would be of interest to you what we have now to discuss. Perhaps you would like to relax in the drawing room, and we will join you shortly?’

  ‘Oui, mon chéri,’ she replied, gracefully and pleasantly. She stood up from the table and began walking towards the door. The Viscomte did not stand u
p, so neither did the other two men.

  It was not until she was halfway through the doorway that Elleck realized that the fingers that had been inside his Y-Fronts were still busily there.

  For a moment he froze; then he tried to remember quite how much of the champagne and the dry white and the clarets and the Sauternes he had drunk, and whether it should have made him this drunk; and then he shot a glance at the Greek on his right. Without turning his head towards him, Culundis grinned and gave him a broad wink.

  The butler arrived with coffee and a bottle of dust-coated Hine. While the Viscomte’s attention was momentarily distracted by him, Elleck plunged his hand below the table and tried to pull Culundis’s hand away. It was like trying to grip an iron rod. Culundis turned to him, leaned over, and spoke softly. ‘Relax – doesn’t it feel good?’

  ‘Get it out,’ hissed Elleck.

  ‘You’re gorgeous – let’s get together later, eh?’

  Elleck, on one of the few occasions in his life, was stumped for words. Lasserre waited while the butler set the coffee cups, poured the coffee, set the huge brandy punts that had been a wedding gift to one of Lasserre’s ancestors from Louis XIV, poured the Hine and discreetly departed. Culundis continued his groping, despite the fact that since Elleck had discovered the true identity of the groper, there was considerably less inside the Y-Fronts for the fingers to grope at.

  ‘Monty,’ said Lasserre, ‘for many years you have handled the commodity investments of my personal portfolio, and the portfolio of the Lasserre group of companies. On many occasions when we have met, we have joked about what we call “the big one,” no?’ Elleck nodded.

  ‘Now, I am not complaining at the way you have handled my money – not at all. You have consistently beaten the market average indicators by good margins, but still “the big one” has not come.’

  The butler returned with a box of Bolivars. Culundis took one, so did Elleck, and then the Viscomte selected one; while his attention was again distracted, Elleck shot Culundis a vicious look. Culundis responded by blowing him a kiss. The butler departed. The men lit their cigars in turn with a wooden taper, which was passed around.

  Lasserre continued: ‘I have decided not to wait any longer for “the big one.” I have decided to make “the big one” happen.’

  Elleck shot Culundis an exasperated look; the expression on the Greek arms dealer’s face was that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  Elleck looked at Lasserre with as quizzical an expression as he could muster under the circumstances.

  ‘Just over two weeks ago,’ said Lasserre, ‘you were convinced that “the big one” had arrived: the raid on Osirak. But the advance time you gave me was short, so very short, and you made a limit on the amount of gold you would buy for me. I had no time to go to anyone else, either. Result? We made a small profit – a nice profit indeed – about one hundred thousand dollars. Not bad for one afternoon – but hardly what I would call the “big one” that I have waited ten years for. I alone can raise from my bank, on the security of my shares in Lasserre Group, in this chateau and estate, probably £50 million; putting that into gold futures at a ten per cent margin, I could buy two and a half million ounces of gold. If some act were to happen that could push the price of gold up say fifty, or maybe one hundred – or panic it even higher – then I could make a profit worth talking about. Even a rise of $50 an ounce, that would make me £125 million profit. That’s what I would call the “big one.” Wouldn’t you, Monty?’

  Elleck nodded. He was finding it damned hard to concentrate.

  ‘Even my disgustingly rich friend, Jimmy Culundis, would have to admit to being impressed with a profit of that size, wouldn’t you, Jimmy?’

  ‘I’d call it big, Claude.’ He grinned. He plucked his hand from Elleck’s trousers and began to attack furiously an itch behind his left ear.

  Elleck immediately dropped his hands under the table, and did up his flies as fast as he could before Culundis could have a chance to launch his second wave. ‘And how do you propose to make this “big one” happen, Claude?’

  ‘There are two things above all others that can make the price of gold rise,’ Lasserre said: ‘A shortage, or the threat of war. Correct, Monty?’

  Elleck nodded. ‘Basically, yes. When there is the threat of war – or actual war – paper money can become completely worthless. That has happened many times, most recently in Vietnam. When the Chinese took over there, they nationalized the banks and stated that the banks would not redeem any bank-notes. The stuff became meaningless paper literally overnight. When there is political uncertainty, people become nervous of paper; if you are fleeing and you are in the middle of the wilderness desperate for food and shelter, in a country that is being overrun by an enemy, there aren’t many people who are going to be interested in your 100 franc notes. Offer them a piece of gold, and it becomes a different matter – they know that somewhere in the world – someone is always going to give them value for it – and gold is the most popular of any metal. Because of its high value, you can carry in your pocket more than enough to live comfortably on for a very long time indeed.’

  Lasserre nodded; Culundis blew large smoke rings, stuck his nose inside his brandy punt, and took several large sniffs.

  ‘It would take a great deal of gold being bought to create a shortage, would it not?’

  ‘An average of 1,500 tons of gold is mined each year, of which an average of 1,200 tons is used for jewellery, electronics, dentistry, decorative purposes, official coins and medals, medallions and commemorative fake coins. The balance – 300 tons – ends up in banks, in the International Monetary Fund and in the hands of private speculators. Those 300 tons have a market value of approximately $4,800 million.’

  ‘I have just calculated,’ interrupted Lasserre, ‘that on margin, I could buy $1,000 million worth of gold – that is one quarter of the world’s annual supply. My friend, Jimmy, also has approximately £50 million he could lay his hands on – which is $100 million – as ten per cent margin that could also buy $1,000 million of gold – are you saying that between us we could buy nearly half the new speculative gold coming into the market this year?’

  Elleck shook his head. ‘No. You are not the only people who trade on margin in gold – many people do – so you have to multiply the value of the gold by ten – to $48,000 million. To this you must add all the rest of the year’s production – because that is also traded on the open market before it is sold – worth $192,000 million – multiplied by ten, because of margin trading – to make ten billion, nine hundred and twenty thousand million dollars; to this you must add the surplus gold since time began – probably 30,000 tons – worth on margin forty billion, eight hundred thousand million dollars, much of which is traded every year; your lousy little $2,000 million wouldn’t even fill the petty cash tin in those terms. No offence, you understand?’

  Lasserre and Culundis both nodded. They understood; being rich was all a matter of relativity. They might be big fishes in a small pond, but out in the ocean, the whales wouldn’t even contemplate putting them in the peanut bowl. ‘Monty,’ said Culundis, ‘if the amount is so insignificant, why, when you knew about Osirak in advance, did you limit the amount the Viscomte could invest to only $1 million?’

  Elleck squirmed slightly in his seat. ‘There were two reasons, actually – both of them connected. You see, I had to be very careful of this inside knowledge. I didn’t want to let on to anyone that I had the knowledge that I possessed, so I did the buying myself, very quietly, through a few chums; so I had to limit it to a small amount in order to avoid looking suspicious. Of course, time played a big part – I only had the tip-off a week before; if I had known earlier, I could have bought a great deal more, spreading it further – but I have to be very careful. I don’t normally do any dealing directly myself – but I didn’t want my brokers getting involved and maybe getting suspicious. I, er, at the end – when I knew things were quietening down – I did give some pret
ty clear sell instructions – but I think I managed to convey the impression that that was just the judgement of an old and wise man, rather than the result of my knowledge.’

  Culundis nodded; he didn’t look too impressed. Elleck looked away from him with a distasteful expression.

  ‘So, Monty,’ said Lasserre, ‘if you’d had more time you could have placed much more?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Lasserre nodded thoughtfully, and re-lit his cigar. ‘If we wish to make a killing on the gold market, we can forget trying to create a shortage, correct?’

  ‘You’ll have to win a lot more races with those nags of yours before you’ll have the cash to create a gold shortage, Claude.’

  ‘So the other option we have is to create the threat of war?’

  Elleck’s shiny forehead rose upwards to meet his shiny bald pate, which sank downwards; where the two joined became a furrowed tangle of creases. He looked at Culundis, then back at Lasserre. ‘That’s about it,’ he said, and grinned, taking a long draw on his cigar and leaning back in his chair.

  ‘Then that’s what we shall do,’ said Lasserre.

  Elleck jolted upright and leaned for an instant on the arm of his chair, before discovering that his chair didn’t have any arms; somehow, by clutching onto a leg, he managed to prevent himself from falling completely onto the floor, and dropped his cigar in the process. He leaned over to pick it up, and shouted out in pain; his finger and thumb had picked it up by the lighted end by mistake. He looked quizzically at his host.

  ‘You see, Monty,’ said Lasserre, ‘Osirak was no good. It was all over – poof! – so quickly. They fly out of the sky, blow up the power station – and then they are gone again, and that was that. Lots of noise in the press for a few days, and then all over. The world is used to acts of terrorism, and that was just one more – although on a fairly large scale. And you know – how many people care about Iraq? Iraq doesn’t mean anything to most people. No. What is needed is something that will matter to the whole world – something that will threaten the peace of the whole world – bring it right to the very brink of war. Right to the very brink. That is what is needed. That is what will push up the price of gold, but really push it up. Right, Monty?’