Billionaire

by Peter James

  Half an hour later, the explosive charge was firmly in position, Baenhaker slid further back underneath the car and then proceeded to wire the time-fuse into the car’s electrical circuit, so that when the ignition was switched on, the countdown on the fuse would start. Eisenbar-Gold-schmidt used this same car park for many of their vehicles; he would not have been popular if the Porsche had blown up in here and damaged any of their cars. Yesterday, it had taken Rocq forty-five seconds from the time of starting his engine to the time he left the car-park entrance; he did not want Rocq to get too far away, because he wanted to be able to witness the explosion with his own eyes, make sure that Rocq was dead, so that he could report positively himself to Ephraim. There had been no other cars leaving at the same time yesterday. He decided he should make a contingency allowance for a delay in case there were some today. He set the dial to two minutes, ran a final check over the fixings and the wirings, and then eased himself out from under the car. It was 9.45 a.m. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the car today – just in case the extraordinary should happen and someone should steal it, or in case Rocq left early. He did not want to miss the fireworks for anything. He found himself a safe position on the stairwell, from where he could clearly see the Porsche and could hear anyone coming either up or down, and then settled down to pass the day in his lonely, dreary watch-post.

  Elleck, who had not slept a wink, had left a message summoning Rocq, who had also not slept a wink, up to his office the moment he arrived.

  ‘Where the hell were you last night?’ said Elleck, half shouting. ‘I tried to get you all through the night! Don’t you ever go to bed?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was a Globalex rule that I have to sleep in my own bed.’

  ‘You were with a girl?’

  ‘Might have been; might have been with a boy.’ Rocq felt belligerent. It was none of Elleck’s damned business, he felt.

  ‘In future, if you’re sleeping around, you bloody well leave me the number you’re going to be at. This company operates around the clock; if you want to work for it, you have got to be on call round the clock also. Understand?’

  Rocq didn’t answer; he didn’t agree, and he was too tired for a fight; he stared at Elleck in silence for some moments, and then spoke. ‘That arms dealer who was shot yesterday – Culundis – is that the Culundis of your syndicate?’

  ‘Yes – and not just him: Viscomte Lasserre, the other partner in it has been killed in a bloody aircrash – yesterday – no – the night before. Both of them dead – and not one damned piece of paper signed. We’re on the hook – that is, Globalex is on the hook for £1,000 million. Did you see what happened to gold during the night?’ Elleck was shrieking, almost hysterical.

  ‘I saw this morning. It’s dropped $30.’

  ‘That is a £25 million loss to this company,’ said Elleck. ‘Twenty-five million!’

  ‘Do you want me to unload everything?’

  ‘I wanted you to last night – when it had only dropped $5 – we could have got out with a two million loss – that would have been tolerable. But 25 million – I don’t know about that. Has that $30 come off as a reaction to the sharp rise – or is there some heavy selling going on? That’s what I have to find out. I don’t know if this coup is going to go ahead or not – if the coup goes ahead, then gold’s going to go back up, for sure. But if it doesn’t come off, gold is going to go down – it’s way higher than it should be right now. I’m going to make some telephone calls – you better go back to your office – and be ready to unload any moment I tell you – don’t leave the office without telling me.’

  ‘I presume, Sir Monty – that the same commission arrangement stands?’

  ‘What?’ said Elleck, looking apoplectic. ‘That commission rate I agreed on was based on our making a massive profit out of this deal – that has changed now – we’re trying to save our necks – how do you have the nerve to come in here and talk about commissions?’

  ‘It’s not my neck that’s on the hook on this gold, Sir Monty, it’s Globalex – which means yours. My neck is on the hook on this coffee – I’ve got the best part of a million pounds to find: 480,000 for you, and 512,000 for Barbiero-Ruche.’

  ‘So – you should have paid us last Monday. But we haven’t pressed you for the money.’

  ‘I know; but we did make a deal.’

  ‘You want your commission, or you want to see Globalex go down the toilet?’

  ‘I want my commission and I don’t want Globalex to go down the toilet.’

  ‘Well I’m afraid, Alex, the situation has changed; you are not getting any damned commission.’

  ‘In that case, Sir Monty, you’d better book a course of guitar lessons while you’ve still got the cash.’

  ‘Guitar lessons? Are you cracking up?’

  ‘No, Sir Monty; if gold drops any further, either you pay me the commission in full, today, for the buying and the selling, or else you are going to have to take up busking. I’m not selling one bar for you until that commission is in my bank; and if gold keeps dropping at the rate it is, by the time you manage to find out the thirty-seven different companies, banks and brokers where I’ve bought all that gold from, you’re going to discover it’s far too damned late.’

  ‘Get out of my office,’ bellowed Elleck.

  Rocq got out, and went back downstairs. He was seething with fury, but he knew he had no option in what he had said. If Globalex did go bust and he was shown as owing the company money, the creditors would come after him for every penny. He had lost everything once before, when the stockbroking firm he worked for had gone to the wall. He wasn’t going to lose everything again: this time he was looking after Number One first.

  By midday, gold had dropped to $635; over $70 had been wiped off its price since yesterday evening; there was an international panic on to get out of the stuff. By half past twelve, a further $30 had been wiped off the value. Rocq’s intercom buzzed: it was Elleck. ‘The £992,000 has just been transferred into your bank account; you can call the bank yourself and check. Now please unload our position,’ he said, meekly as a lamb.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rocq. He rang his bank. The money was there. He smiled to himself, a smile of relief. Then he stopped smiling: he didn’t have much to smile about yet. Not unless he thought it would be amusing to be the richest man in the graveyard.

  Twenty minutes later, Rocq buzzed Elleck: ‘No one wants to buy gold right now, Sir Monty; the best price I can get anywhere on a five-bar lot is –’ he paused, ‘five hundred and ninety-four dollars.’

  There was a long silence. ‘That would cost more money than I have,’ said Elleck curtly. ‘Don’t do anything; we’ll have to wait for an upturn.’

  It was strange, Rocq reflected, but he almost felt sorry for the bastard.

  At half-past four, gold had dipped to $578; $129 had been wiped off its value. It was the largest single drop in the price in one day in the history of the metal. The atmosphere in Globalex was funereal. The brokers around Alex were frantically trying to bail their clients out of the gold they had so eagerly urged them into during the boom of the previous days. Rocq was the only one in the room who appeared to be unflustered in his actions.

  At a quarter past five, the receptionist rang Rocq to say that Amanda was outside, waiting for him. He cursed. He had forgotten they were driving to a dinner party near Sevenoaks tonight. He buzzed on the intercom up to Elleck’s office. Elleck’s secretary answered; ‘He’s left for the day, Mr Rocq; he wasn’t feeling too well.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Rocq.

  He shut his briefcase, picked up his mackintosh, and went out to greet Amanda.

  It had rained heavily during the day, and now the late afternoon sun was drying the streets, sending little wisps of steam up. Suddenly, Baenhaker saw Rocq appear; in the same instant, he saw to his horror that Amanda was with him. The two of them stopped at the pavement, then crossed the road and disappeared out of his sight into the ground floor of the
car park; Baenhaker heard their footsteps as they began climbing the stairs.

  For a moment, he froze, then retreated further up the staircase, in case they missed the floor, which was all too easy, judging by the twenty or so people who had done so during the day. He heard them stop at the second floor; Rocq said something, and Amanda laughed. Baenhaker was seized with more emotions than he knew how to cope with; it had never occurred to him that Amanda might be accompanying Rocq.

  ‘Let me drive,’ he heard her say.

  ‘Okay – I’ll get it out the parking lot for you.’

  ‘Alex Rocq, I am quite capable of reversing a motor car,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Okay, okay – I’ll see you out.’

  ‘Okay – thanks.’

  Baenhaker heard the sound of the door open, then shut, then the engine turned over by the starter motor; the fuse would now have been triggered off and in less than two minutes, the car would explode. He heard her second attempt at starting, still to no avail.

  ‘Pump the accelerator, twice!’ he heard Rocq’s voice, shouting through the window.

  Then he heard the engine fire, and the sound of a gear being engaged.

  Baenhaker was shaking and sweating; his head was swimming; he couldn’t, not her. Something! He had to do something! Frantically, he pulled the Walther out from inside his jacket, sprinted down the steps; Amanda was in the middle of backing out, and Rocq was anxiously signalling with his hands.

  ‘Right hand down,’ he coughed, as the exhaust smoke enveloped him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sprinting full pelt at him, gun outstretched. He flung himself onto the floor. Baenhaker ignored Rocq, grabbed open the driver’s door. ‘Get out, get out!’ he screamed, hysterically.

  ‘Danny!’ she screamed in fear, staring frozen at the gun.

  Baenhaker grabbed her under the arm, yanked her out of the car and flung her onto the floor; Rocq started to get up.

  ‘Stay down Alex, he’s got a gun!’ she screamed.

  Baenhaker flung himself into the driving seat of the car, crashed the gear into first, and flattened the accelerator. He did not know where he was going, he just knew he had to get the car away from Amanda. He had never driven a Porsche before, let alone a turbo-powered one, and the acceleration took him by surprise. The tail snaked viciously across the concrete floor and he swiped the front of two parked cars, then smashed into the side wall of the exit ramp; he pulled desperately at the steering wheel, but the turbo had now cut fully in, the rear wheels gripped, and the car began to ride up the side of the wall; it crashed down onto its side, rolled onto its roof, and slid crazily down the ramp onto the next floor, slamming into a parked Rolls Royce. Baenhaker tried frantically to orient himself and disentangle himself. He scrambled for the door handle, couldn’t find it, scrabbled more desperately, found a handle, wrenched at it, and heard a smooth whirring sound as the electric motor adjusted the door mirror. Cursing wildly, he moved his hand first up, then downwards, then he found it and pulled; nothing happened. He shoved against the door, desperately; it wouldn’t move; he gave another shove.

  Rocq scrambled to his feet. ‘Stay down,’ he shouted at Amanda. He ran after the Porsche then froze in his tracks as he saw it turn on its side and slide down the ramp; it crashed into the Rolls and then rocked to and fro. The figure inside was scrabbling desperately to get out. Suddenly the Porsche leapt several feet into the air; as it fell back down, a sheet of white flame engulfed it. The driver’s door tore off and smashed into the side of a car parked to the left; then the whole Porsche turned into a ball of flame. Rocq heard screams of terror from Amanda; he knelt over the edge of the parapet, and threw up into Lower Thames Street.

  32

  Ephraim felt relaxed; it was the first time in many days that he had done so. Lasserre was dead and Culundis was dead. He hadn’t yet had the report from Baenhaker about the two in England, but he was no longer concerned about them. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a white envelope, and removed the sheet of paper containing his instructions from his blackmailers. He had already sent a coded message to Joseph Brilej, commander of the 100 sailors he had despatched to Umm Al Amnah, ordering their immediate return. He took out the message he was supposed to have telexed to the leaders of the world’s nations this morning and lit it with the cigarette lighter on his desk. He then carefully mushed to pieces the charred remains. At that moment, the yellow telephone on his desk rang.

  The yellow phone linked him directly to certain key members of the Knesset, together with key members of the armed forces. Very few people called him on this phone, as it was kept clear only for use in crises.

  ‘Ephraim,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, General,’ said the unusually grim voice of Commander Yitzak Mehne, Chief of Naval Security.

  ‘Morning, Yitzi,’ said Ephraim, bullishly. ‘How are you keeping?’

  ‘Could be better,’ he replied, tersely.

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘I don’t know that I have a problem – yet – but there’s something I think you ought to know about just happened in the Persian Gulf – Strait of Hormuz.’

  Ephraim’s good cheer drained out of him, like air from a burst tyre. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘An oil tanker – the Arctic Sundance, on its way up to pick up a cargo – four miles off Goat Island, just blew to smithereens. An incredible explosion – no one ever saw anything like it.’

  ‘Empty oil tankers often blow up, Yitzi – they get a build-up of gas – they don’t pump it out enough, get an electrical short or something – and bang. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Ephraim was sweating profusely; he could hardly hold the telephone, his hand was so wet.

  ‘I agree with you about tankers, Isser, but apparently this explosion was just unbelievable.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘No one ever saw an explosion like it.’

  ‘How many of them ever saw a tanker blow up before?’

  ‘None of them, I shouldn’t think.’

  ‘So what are they getting so excited about?’

  ‘There’s a bit of speculation it might have hit a mine, Isser – that’s what they’re getting excited about.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘That dhow with the four Israeli sailors on it a few weeks ago – the four Israeli sailors and the eight nuclear mines? Remember? Now a tanker suddenly blows up. A lot of people are trying to put two and two together. What are those sailors you got in Amnah up to, Isser?’

  ‘Nothing – they’re on their way home – now come on, Yitzi, you don’t think they’ve been out laying mines?’

  ‘Look you old devil, knowing the way you operate, nothing would surprise me – okay?’

  ‘Well I can assure you that whatever blew that tanker up is not my doing. Okay?’

  ‘Sure okay – just thought you’d better know about it. Talk to you soon.’

  ‘Sure. ’Bye.’ Ephraim replaced the receiver; he was drenched in sweat. He telephoned Haifa; the sailors had not arrived back yet. No sooner had he hung up, than his green international secure telephone rang: it was Ellie Katz, chief of London operations, calling to inform him that Baenhaker was currently being scraped off the walls of the Lower Thames Street multi-storey car park. The loss of Baenhaker did not please him at all. He thought hard about Elleck, whom he knew, and the man Rocq, whom he didn’t; there was still a fury deep inside him over Elleck, but professionally, he knew his death would be too late now, as would Rocq’s. He could still order Elleck’s death, but now it would be personal, not in the cause of business. One day, he vowed, he would get even with Elleck, face to face: that was how he would like it, but now was not the time. He thanked Katz, weakly, for the call, and hung up. He had a distinct feeling this was not going to be his morning.

  Half an hour later, the feeling was proved right. The yellow telephone rang again; it was the Prime Minister and he wanted to see him – in Jerusalem – immediately.

  W
hen Isser Ephraim left the Prime Minister’s office, the security guard on the front door of the Knesset building was remarkably well informed. ‘Good morning, Mr Ephraim,’ he said. For the first time in all the years he could remember, Ephraim left the Knesset building unsaluted. It was also the first time that there had not been a chauffeur-driven car waiting for him. There was, in fact, no car waiting at all: the car and driver that had been at his disposal for the past fifteen years, that had become as natural a mode of transport to him as putting on his shoes in the morning, had quietly and discreetly vanished.

  Humiliated, he turned right and walked along the road, in search of a taxi to take him the twenty miles back to Tel Aviv. The Prime Minister had, in the last hour, stripped him of his rank and his job, effective immediately. His passport was cancelled, and he was to face an in-camera court martial for, in the words of the Prime Minister, ‘Performing traitorous acts calculated to bring the state of Israel into international disrepute.’

  Ephraim reflected on the last hour and a half, which was the most unpleasant hour and a half he had ever spent in his life, concentration camps included. The United States Armed Forces in Oman had detected a concentrated mass of radioactive fallout, compatible with the fallout resulting from the exploding of a nuclear weapon, spreading downwind from where the Arctic Sundance had exploded. Their only possible conclusions were that either the Arctic Sundance was carrying in its cargo a nuclear explosive, which was detonated when the oil tank exploded, or that the ship was blown up by a nuclear device either placed in it or in the water, such as a mine.

  The mine theory was lent not a little weight when an American frigate went to the rescue of a coaster which had run out of fuel, to discover it was carrying 100 sailors from the Israeli Navy, with its decks and cargo hold piled high with nuclear mines.

  There was, as Ephraim had said to the Prime Minister, and thought, puzzled, to himself now, no immediate answer he could give to that.

  33

  There were two men who knew the answer to the riddle the ex-head of the Mossad could not solve, and both of them were happy men. One of them was Sheik Abr Qu’Ih Missh; the other was Alex Rocq. Three and a half thousand miles apart, they replaced their telephone receivers and calculated their respective gains.