But there was one thing she couldn’t condone – the twenty-four-seven monitored CCTV cameras spread out in all the rooms. She didn’t care that the state-of-the-art thermal-imaging devices were able to detect the heat signature of a cricket in the middle of the bush across the street, she wouldn’t have it. Privacy is paramount to a semblance of normal life, she had argued vehemently.
She went into her man's back and talked the Israeli consultant into installing fingerprint-activated locks for the couple instead, with limited access to Mustafa and the lieutenants, and reinforced shutters that would seal the place down in case of attack. Home decoration for the madmen, she thought.
The most expensive line item by some margin had been the safe room. A bombproof panic room that could sustain the most unforgiving torment and still keep its occupants unharmed. Chloe had argued that cans of Coca-Cola and Cadbury chocolatey sweets would provide potentially life-saving energy in the form of glucose, but the men wouldn’t have it. Canned food and water would be the only edible provisions, while medical supplies, communications, and an impregnable supply of fresh air would go a long way of prolonging the occupants’ lifespan if they ever had to spend days locked in the contained space.
The Mantes-la-jolie boys took maximum precautions, undertaking an in-depth investigation on the consultant and his company, compelling him to sign non-disclosure agreements and making sure he understood that he was in their books for the rest of his life. They were careful not to have the Mansouri’s name appear on official documents and building plans submitted to local councils. The security overlay was filed separately from the architectural design. The last thing they wanted was for the plans to become available to the public. And to their enemies.
CHAPTER 20
That evening, it took Zakariya exactly four minutes to clear the security checkpoints that were supposed to prevent intruders from penetrating into his life. It was all but efficient for a man who considered time the most precious currency, but he had gotten used to it and even played along like a child lost into a daily game of hopscotch. Once the first checkpoint was in sight, he would move so precisely and swiftly in an attempt to eliminate all friction. Often, he would manage to open the traditional, sequential locks even before the system was ready to scan his fingerprint. So much for a supposedly lightning-fast hundred-grand gadget, he would invariably think.
By all accounts, this had been a testing day. The meeting with the gang had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Right at that moment, he did not care so much about the widening rife with Djibril. No, his main frustration came from his own brother, who for the first time in years seemed to be on a different wavelength. The only human being he would give up his life for in a heartbeat. He expected that the reverse held true, but moment like today's showdown cast doubt in his mind.
And to make matters worse, even his traders at Castellane Investments seemed to gang up against him. He was convinced that the Bund had to bounce back, as the European Central Bank wouldn't be able to delay further quantitative easing for long. His strategists just wouldn't get on board with the idea, even though the firm's invaluable algorithm was screaming to load up on positions to play that bet. The disagreement had wound him up so much that for a moment he contemplated scrapping the qualitative overlay to their investment process, the last hurdle before becoming an exclusively data-driven investment house – man's judgment. But he thought better of it eventually. Machines were lacking the one thing that could prevent catastrophic investment decision – gut feeling. This could not be taught, not to a machine, not even to another man. It was a birthright. God's ultimate gift to mankind, the power of foresight through the entrails. There was one way to awake this power into a man, Zakariya knew – by holding him at gunpoint.
He cleared the face-recognition checkpoint and walked into his flat in the most mechanic way, traversing the living room and collapsing into the cozy crimson sofa, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding right behind him. When he finally heard the familiar snoring sound, his heart missed a beat.
He spun around and, bewildered by the scene, he cried out, “For fuck’s sake Chloe, you gotta be kidding me!”
She put down the plastic straw she was holding, and looked at him right in the eyes. She didn’t say a word.
Zakariya was unsure whether the woman was high or lost in thoughts. She finally got up, walked to his side, and threw herself on his lap. "Don't give me that look; I just had a teeny-tiny line." She took his face in her hands. "I just wanted to remember how it felt."
“Where did you even get the stuff from?” he pressed, knocking her hands off his face.
She giggled, “I’m never gonna tell you. I know you instructed everyone to keep the dope away from me. You blacklisted me!”
"I had too, your profile is that of a typical prospective cocaine addict. The worst kind of scum. A prime target for a shameless crack dealer," he muttered as seriously as he could, the hint of a smile showing on the side of his meaty lips.
“Hey, that’s not true,” she wailed. “I haven’t used your merchandise of death in years.”
“How about you make it another few years?” he asked sardonically.
She gazed at him without a word for a few seconds, and said, “I am bored of this life, Zak.” Her rebellious tone had been replaced with a noticeable spleen. “You don’t see it, you get all the action, all the adrenaline, while I’m a lion in a cage. As good as a housewife.”
“Come on, baby...” He made a conscious effort to loosen his furrowed brows and soften his naturally hostile-looking face. “We’ve made a good life for ourselves. Most people would kill to be at your place. Especially right now, on my knees.”
She flashed a cheeky yet somewhat bittersweet smile, and said, "I want to work, Zak. With my degree, I could get a good position in an art gallery. I miss having a real occupation; I can't just spend all your money."
“But you don’t have to work! And honestly, you seem pretty busy to me. Do you really need a job on top of your social life and your blog? This really doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“I am bored Zak!” she fired back. “Do you know what I did today?”
“Snort half of London’s cocaine?”
"No. I had afternoon fucking tea! At Claridge's."
Zakariya looked intrigued, as if he couldn't believe his fury of a woman would ever engage in such a traditional, if humdrum, hobby.
“With the complimentary three-tiered cake, gluten-free raspberry brownies and beetroot-infused scones. All eighty-nine quid of it. We’ve become such bourgeois. I’m scared I’ll wake up one day, look in the mirror and see one of those uptight frustrated British crown ladies.”
Zakariya couldn’t help but chuckle. It was definitely the coke talking.
Chloe shrugged and continued her plea, “Take me seriously for once, have that decency. I feel like a spoiled brat who has no future, nothing to look forward to.” Tears of anger tinged with sadness rose to her eyes. Unwilling to be that vulnerable in front of him, she stood up suddenly and paced furiously to their room.
“Baby, let’s talk about this,” Zakariya called out. “Come back.”
“Fuck you, Zak.” She disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door shut.
Stunned by the dramatic exit, Zakariya remained speechless in his sofa, mulling over the knee-jerk reaction. He was convinced this wasn't about boredom or a sudden desire to work. She was the happiest she had ever been since she had left her career as an underpaid art teacher years ago. She had picked up painting, started to write a blog on post-modernist artworks, and travelled back and forth to Corsica whenever she fancied.
No, this had nothing to do with ennui or a search for meaning. He had been a largely absent figure, as he endeavored to build his empire, and it would just be too easy to overlook his woman’s call for help. He knew Chloe Orsini better than she knew herself. The time had come. He could feel it in his guts. She was eager to start a family.
CHAPTER 21
&n
bsp; Zakariya Mansouri always endeavored to take life as it came, and seized every opportunity thrown at him to better his living, learning on the fly. Improvisation at its finest.
He was a magnetic, if mercurial, character, a leader of men, and possessed this rare ability to transform every fragile fluttering flame of a man he stumbled upon into a demonic hellfire. People were naturally drawn by that quality, and all men under his leadership knew that if they stuck around long enough, they would be able to catch some of the heat. In all probability, he had made more millionaires than any of the top entrepreneurs in the country. Had he been born in the family of the man standing next to him, his ascent might have been even more stupendous. But it might just as well have inhibited his talents and swayed him from realizing his full potential.
Like his lieutenants, Zakariya was a man of action, a real risk-taker but devoid of hubris – the original pragmatic, willing to do anything to improve his condition and that of his family. The underworld was full of men ready to take chances, approaching the Mansouri brothers for business partnerships. He could have broken into all the main industries in the country, through backdoors accessible to only the most reputable leaders in the black market, but he had stayed the course of his vision, and his entourage had reaped the benefits of it.
Of all his accomplishments, his investment company had to be the one he was most proud of. It had been his very first foray into the legal economy. As a matter of fact, he had poured into it his entire hard-earned savings from the drug trade following a premature retirement. A meager hundred and fifty thousand euros. Under ninety thousand pounds at the time. Hardly enough to start an investment firm under normal market conditions. But even as a freshie without a network, he had had one invaluable connection in the person of Raphael Mattei.
The Corsican was a born salesman and looked the part – from the slicked immaculately combed hair and golden cufflinks to the compulsory protruding abdominal fat. He owed Zakariya his life, and immediately saw that the young man was an entirely different species from the no-good rejects so prevalent in the Parisian ghetto.
Two years later, Zakariya Mansouri had proved the best investment he had ever made, and his initial forty percent stake in the asset management firm had grown from a million pounds to almost fifteen million. Raphael Mattei was a shrewd investor in his own right, with private investments in frontier markets. The Corsicans had always had a special relationship with sub-Saharan Africa, where his uncles owned a number of unorthodox business interests, including a horse race betting franchise in Ghana and a low-cost domestic airline in Congo.
Castellane Investments on the other hand, had neither the expertise nor the risk tolerance to invest in such exotic lands. Their edge was best employed in highly liquid, conventional equity and bond markets. They would use derivatives to take on large-scale positions if their algorithm-backed analysis indicated to do so. The private Fund that Zakariya and his associate were to pitch in a few minutes, the Castellane Millennium Fund, was a blend of contrarian strategies and massive event-driven bets. The Fund’s strategy sought to exploit pricing inefficiencies likely to occur around corporate events such as mergers and acquisitions, spinoffs, bankruptcies, and plain earning calls. Or at least, that’s what Lloyd Davies was rehearsing in his head ahead of an all-important real-size test.
Lloyd had been invited to join the client meeting that was about to start by the CEO himself. He had been promoted a week earlier, with the monumental task of leading the launch of this new hedge fund strategy. The meeting kicked into gear and Lloyd begun to recite his spiel with the contagious enthusiasm of a rookie out of college.
Despite his man’s blatant intellectual brilliance and his characteristic clarity of speech, Zakariya had the worrying impression that the message was getting lost in translation. The two investors before them had the faces of pupils trying to get the teacher off their back by pretending to understand everything. He was almost certain that should he quiz them about even the most basic financial concepts, they would draw a blank. Sophisticated investors my ass.
The two men had introduced themselves as the co-directors of investment at a traditional British wealth management house, and while they definitely could pass for the local versions of Warren Buffett and Charlie Munger, Zakariya had the nagging feeling that he would not win the mandate he was looking for. He pushed aside those nefarious thoughts and assumed he was cogitating for nothing. Besides, he hadn’t been in meetings with such small-time investors in years, as he would usually leave that duty to his relationship managers. He had only made the effort to help his new Fund gain traction.
Lloyds was chewing on the branch of his spectacles, visibly nervous but enjoying his new client-facing role, yet he seemed oblivious to the doubts pervading his boss’s mind.
Castellane Investments funds had recently drawn the attention of the industry for their outstanding performances and consistent rankings at the top decile of their categories. Most outsiders thought the black-boxed algorithm was the reason to their success, while foolish smear campaigners spread false rumors of a Ponzi scheme. Zakariya knew that a robust investment process and talented people were to praise for the successes of his investment house.
Before he could think twice about it, the meeting was over.
His impression of the two men took a new turn for the awkward when the oldest of them – a wide-faced, stout and sweaty man – grabbed Zakariya’s jacket from the chair and handed it over to him with a dirty yellow-teethed smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Mansouri,” the man said with the most exquisite London accent. They all shook hands with the promise of being in touch rapidly, and the two investors made their way through the ground floor security gate and out of Castellane Investments’ premises.
CHAPTER 22
"Well, that was disquieting," Zakariya said, as they made their way to the lift back to the trading floor.
Lloyd looked hesitant, unsure what his boss was hinting at.
“I’ve never seen investors so compliant. They didn’t interrupt even once. As if they knew before the meeting that they weren’t going to invest.” He paused. “Are they legit?”
“Yes, everything was in order, I had the intern run background checks on them. Family office turned wealth manager, four hundred million pounds in assets under management. Offices in London and Edinburgh,” Lloyd replied.
“Let’s do some more due diligence on them. Do it yourself this time.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You did good today by the way. Laying the foundations of a complex strategy in such simple terms. Not sure I’d have done it better myself...Next time, take a breather, give them a chance to ask questions”
Lloyd nodded, taking stock of the constructive criticism. He clinched his notebook to his chest, and as he was turning to get back to his desk, the question his boss threw in the air sent shivers down his spine.
“I hear you’re moving out of Islington. Not feeling the neighborhood anymore?” Zakariya asked.
Lloyd was taken aback. His nervy British blood flooded his legs, urging him to flee any further invading of his privacy. He and Lola had kept the move quiet in their respective workplaces, this was no one's business. He searched his mind frantically and concluded that they had only told their parents about it.
"Chloe says Lola is pretty excited at the prospect of living in Brixton. Vibrant borough. Not an area I know well myself, but I've had a couple of memorable nights on Coldharbour Lane."
Lola! She just couldn’t resist. As his heartbeat slowed down, Lloyd did his best to look composed. “Yeah, we’re pretty excited about it. Bigger place, lots of entertainment options. Definitely looking forward to hitting the clubs there.”
Zakariya gave him a dubious look. Lloyd had the profile of an asocial hermit, and rarely indulged in after-work drinks. Zakariya could hardly picture him downing beers after beers at the local pub, let alone dance the night out in one of Brixton’s many multi-floor DJ bars.
Lloyd re
alized he was fooling nobody. “Well, ok, we’re moving because of Lola. For the most part. Entirely because of her, actually. And because the neighborhood is still affordable.”
Zakariya raised a cheeky smile, “Lola is a sweetheart. I’m sure you guys will enjoy it there.”
“I didn’t mind Islington. I actually quite like it. There’s a special vibe to the place,” Lloyd said.
“So I’ve heard. You’ve been living there long?”
"Over a decade now. I was there before it became stylish. When it was still a working-class district."
Recluse as he is, he probably wouldn’t have heard of the brutal murder that occurred only two streets away from his apartment, Zakariya thought. It was best if he didn’t know anyway, but Zakariya couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he could somehow be involved with the Aydins. That a typical Briton, probably coming from a conservative, wealthy family spent over ten years in a such a popular part of a city like London – of its own accord – was somewhat of an oddity.
Zakariya couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the guy though, and was intrigued by his visibly superior yet bordering autistic intellect, and nonetheless unusually charismatic presence. Besides, Islington was effectively the most densely populated borough in the United Kingdom, and even if the Aydin family was pervasive, it was near downright impossible that a connection existed here.
“Alright, I’ll be one my way. I need to review the portfolios and place a few final trades before the markets close,” Lloyd announced.
Zakariya patted him on the shoulder in acknowledgment, and slid back into his jacket. Like every day for the past week, he had the urge to check on his brother, to call him and let him know that he felt remorse about how that meeting had unfolded, that he was sorry he rebuked him publicly before the eyes of all the lieutenants.
Bad Blood Empire Page 8