“Do the current owners of that bank know about this man Skinner?”
“Luckman, don’t make a big thing of it. Skinner will no longer be with that bank after you take it over, will he? I mean, you can hardly expect the top executives of that place to stay on after you take it over. Anyway, you probably wouldn’t want him to stay.”
“I should think not. But now you’ve really blown it. How can we tell that he hasn’t phonied up all the records of the bank, including the rest of the balance sheet?”
“Because he hasn’t. Anyway, your big job will be to go into that bank and make sure. Right?”
“We’ll never get to that point. In fact, I’m sure we’ll never get beyond this conversation. Mr. Foreman would never touch a deal like this.”
“I’d suggest you leave that decision to him,” stated Topping dryly. “In fact, it’s one he’s going to have to make rather soon. We’re in a hurry to close this deal. So Foreman’s going to have to decide whether he wants this bank presented to him on a platter, or not. And it’s up to you to determine that. Now. So let’s go over the entire thing again. This time take notes.”
Luckman did as he was told. When they were done, Topping left, leaving behind a suggestion that Luckman call Foreman. Right away.
14
DURING the next hour, three key phone conversations took place. They were responsible for irrevocably setting into motion a series of events that were going to rock the Swiss banking community, cause total havoc in the world silver markets, cost naive speculators literally billions of dollars, and make a fortune for a few not so naive investors. What a much nicer world this would be if Alexander Graham Bell had been a botanist.
The first call went from Donald Luckman at the Hotel Villa Castagnola in Lugano to George Foreman in his office at the First National Bank of California in San Francisco. It went like this:
“Mr. Foreman? Donald Luckman in Switzerland.”
“One moment.” Someone was requested to leave Foreman’s office and to come back in about fifteen minutes. “All right, Luckman, go ahead.”
“I understand that you appointed Mr. Nicholas Topping as the bank’s agent in regard to the possible acquisition of the Bank of Sicily and America here in Lugano.” Luckman tried to not sound peeved, but did not succeed.
“Your understanding is correct, Luckman.”
“I am going to merely report on what Topping has done so far, without endorsing any part of it.”
“Report, Luckman. And spare me the running commentary.”
“Topping claims the bank is available. He also claims that it will be available with 100 percent ownership of that Iranian mining property. I already explained about the mine, and Topping’s interest in it, when I called you from Dubai.”
“You did. How much will it cost us?”
“It’s not basically a matter of cost. It’s one of risk. Topping is talking big numbers. Very big. And unless Topping is representing an absolutely impeccable party, we could . . .”
George Foreman interrupted: “He is. In fact, Topping represents an organization that has a net worth at least four or five times our own. Furthermore, it is owned and run by one man—Frank Cook. I assume even you must have heard of him, Luckman.”
Luckman had, and murmured such into the phone.
“Cook and I have been in constant communication with each other—which, I assure you, is not all that convenient since he’s in London and I’m out here on the West Coast. The point of all this is the following: I’m not at all interested in your endorsement or nonendorsement of what Topping has done. He does what Frank Cook tells him to do, just as I expect you to do exactly what I tell you to do. If this deal is done, Cook and I will do it. And you and Topping will take care of the details. I gather you understand this and will act accordingly from now on, Luckman.”
“Of course, sir, but I didn’t realize that . . .”
“Now you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So go on with your report. I asked you a very simple question, if you recall. I’ll repeat it: How much will that Swiss bank cost us?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s it worth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“Ten million.”
“What would be the mechanics?”
“Complicated,” replied Luckman, who then hurried to continue. “It would involve us purchasing all of the outstanding shares of the Swiss bank through an escrow arrangement at a London bank for $60 million. Then we would take the Iranian property out of the Swiss bank, and put it into a second escrow account. Frank Cook’s group, using a Liechtenstein company, would buy it for $85 million. $25 million of that would go to the Swiss bank to reimburse them for the sale of the Iranian property; the rest would go back to California. So like I said, our net cost would be zero.”
“I don’t see anything complicated about that,” said Foreman.
“So far, not. But the buyer of the Iranian property further requires that all references to the silver mine be deleted from any audit report we—I—might make on that Swiss bank.”
“So?”
“Well, Mr. Foreman, with all due respect, in my opinion . . .”
“Luckman, remember you’re in Switzerland now. Not California. The mores of the banking and business community over there are quite different from our own. Just look at the Italians and the French! They don’t even pay taxes. If we want to operate successfully in that part of the world, we must adapt. Now’s the time to start.”
“But . . .”
“So I want you to proceed along the lines Topping has suggested.”
Luckman swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to go into that bank as soon as possible. Make an audit report. If everything’s all right, send it to me with your recommendation that we acquire the bank.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where will those escrow arrangements be set up in London?”
“At Winthrop’s. They’re on Lombard Street.”
“Fine. You should include a request for the proper funds in your report to me. I’ll make sure they get there. Provided, of course, everything proves out in your audit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work, Luckman. We’ve been given a marvelous opportunity here, and you are following through beautifully. I plan to come over there as soon as possible following the closing. Marjory will come along. We’re both looking forward to picking up where we left off at the Country Club the other week. Marjory thinks the world of your wife, you know. Please give her our best regards.”
“Yes, sir.”
There were two clicks signaling the termination of Luckman’s call: one when Foreman hung up five thousand miles away in California; the other, when Luckman’s wife, ten yards away in the adjoining bedroom, replaced the receiver on the extension.
The second phone conversation took place between Nick Topping at the Hotel Metropole in Lugano and Frank Cook in his residence just outside Marlowe on the Thames, in Buckinghamshire, England. It was rather short.
“Mr. Cook, Topping here.”
“Yes, Nick.”
“Looks like we can get it for eighty-five million.”
“What’s it worth?”
“They’re producing at three million ounces a month now, and expect it to go to five by mid-year. That would put peak annual output at around 60 million ounces. At current price, over $100 million. Who knows how much is still below the ground, probably triple that amount. So my guess is that the property is worth at least a quarter of a billion.”
“And it will be worth a lot more to us if we can keep that stuff in the ground for a while.”
“Exactly, Mr. Cook. We’ll make it twice over, just like you said. Now in the future market. Later by selling spot bullion after we’ve jacked the price up.”
“How’s that fellow Luckman working out?”
“As expected. But he’ll come around, provided
you’ve taken care of the San Francisco end.”
“I have.”
“Good.”
“How long until you can wrap this up, Topping?”
“Oh, probably in a couple of weeks.”
“That means we’ll have to have around eighty-five million cash ready to go at that time.”
“Right. Any problem there?”
“No. How will it work technically?”
“Back-to-back escrow arrangements. The Fiore group puts the shares of the bank, and 100 percent equity of that mine in escrow. The California bank pays out $60 million to the Fiore group.”
“Then?”
“The California bank puts the mining property into a second escrow. Against that, we deliver $85 million. They keep $60 million and put the extra $25 million into the Swiss bank to replace the mining assets they sell us. Everything’s clean after that.”
“Will the Fiore group cause trouble?”
“I doubt it. Young Albert was quite reasonable. That Doc Smythe is a pain in the ass, though. Still, I think he’ll cool off.”
“Good. And that Iranian fellow?”
“He’ll play, as soon as he understands that one way or the other, he’s going to get squeezed out. But we’ll probably have to leave him a little. Like the silver warehoused already in Dubai.”
“Good work, Nick. When it’s so far, come on back to London. I want you here when those escrow arrangements are set up.”
“Will do.”
The third call was a conference call—at least on the Swiss end. Involved were Doc and Albert in the Bank of Sicily and America in Lugano, and Joe Fiore in Las Vegas. Doc spoke first, once they had gotten through.
“Joe, it’s me, Doc. Albert’s on another phone.”
“Something wrong?”
“Hello, Dad,” this from Albert.
“Something wrong, Albert?”
“That depends.”
“Oh no it doesn’t,” Doc cut in, “there’s definitely something wrong here, Joe. It’s something we can take care of. But we may need a little help.”
“Well what is it, for Christ’s sake!”
“Somebody’s trying to take over the bank.”
“They can’t do that!” screamed Joe.
“Exactly what I said,” agreed Doc.
“Who?”
“Some wise guy by the name of Nick Topping. Says he knows you.”
“Topping?”
“Yeah. A big guy. Probably forty-five. Mumbled something about Miami and some Cubans.”
“That Topping.” Then silence.
“Bad news, Joe?”
“Not good.”
“Who’s he working for?”
“One of the real heavies. Man named Frank Cook.”
“Is he out of Miami?”
“No you dumb bastard. He’s one of the richest guys alive.”
“What’s Topping’s job?”
“Hatchet man. For Cook. He used to be with the Treasury Department. Narcotics. Then he went to work for I.T.T. in Latin America. Moved on to some Belgian company, and worked for them in the Congo. Real dangerous sonofabitch.”
“Ever heard of a bank called the First National of California?”
“Vaguely.”
“They’re big. Topping says he’s acting as their agent.”
“Bullshit. Topping works for Frank Cook. Period.”
“Sure, Joe. I see that. But for some reason they must have talked that California bank into fronting for them.”
“Why?”
“I’m not completely sure. But I do know this: Topping couldn’t care less about this bank. He’s only after that silver mine.”
“That figures. Frank Cook’s the biggest in silver.”
“How come you know so much about Frank Cook, Joe?”
“For a while he was in the hotel business out here. Before Hughes. Then he pulled out, all of a sudden.”
“Topping seems to know all about us.”
“That’s his angle?”
“Yeah.”
“Has he made an offer.”
“Fifty million. Albert countered with sixty-five. Probably would end up around sixty.”
“I’ve only put in ten so far,” said Fiore.
“Joe! You’re not going to let some guy like Topping push you around, are you?”
“Topping, no. Frank Cook, maybe.”
“Is this guy Cook superman or something?”
“Almost.”
“Look, Joe, we’ve been together a long time now. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never asked any favors, or anything. I’ve done my job, and done it fine. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“Now I’m going to ask for a favor.”
A pause.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t give in to these guys. At least not yet. I’ll find an angle. Joe, I always find an angle.”
“Doc, you’re out of your league this time.”
Then, for the first time, Albert broke in.
“Dad, it’s not just us that’s involved.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Firdausis. Our partners in that Iranian project. You met them last summer.”
“What’s their problem?”
“The key provision of the takeover bid is that we foreclose on the entire property in Iran.”
“Can we?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“It must be done quickly. And he may give us trouble.”
“Albert,” stated his father, “Maybe you’re a bit young to take on something like that.”
“I agree,” interjected Doc.
“Doc, you keep out of this,” answered Joe Fiore. “Albert, what did you have in mind?”
“That the prince and I go down to Iran and talk the whole situation over with the Firdausis.”
“It’s stupid,” said Doc.
“Doc,” Fiore warned. “Shut up. Now Albert, why that prince?”
“Because he knows Firdausi best. They’re even related.”
“Now wait a minute,” Doc again, “there’s no need for that.
“I tell you, Joe, I’ll find a way out of this. Come on, give me a chance.”
There was a long pause on the Las Vegas end of the line.
“O.K.,” replied Joe Fiore finally. “You try whatever you want, Doc. Just don’t blow this deal. Albert, you go down there with that prince and talk to Firdausi. In the meantime both of you make as if we’re playing ball with Frank Cook and his boy Topping. You understand that, Doc?”
“How long do I have?”
“Albert,” asked his father, “How long?”
“I would say a week, ten days at most. Topping made it quite clear that they’re in a hurry.”
“All right. One week. Then I want both of you to come back to me. And Doc, I warn you just one more time. Don’t blow this deal unless you come up with a perfect solution. Frank Cook has us by the short hairs. He does not like losing. He’d rather see the whole bank go down the drain, silver mine and all, than get beaten by us. Unless we develop an even better lock on him. That won’t be easy. In fact, my guess is that it will be impossible. But you’re got one week to try.”
“Fair enough, Joe.” Doc’s voice was steady, but barely.
“And Albert,” Joe said, “you be very careful down there in that Iran. You hear?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Just one more thing, Joe,” said Doc.
“Yeah?”
“Am I still in charge here?”
“You are. As long as you follow orders.”
15
DOC also intended to stay in charge. Because he was convinced that he had finally achieved something that he wanted to keep— permanently. He did not kid himself in the slightest as to what that something was. Respect.
Respect. The respect of society. The respect of colleagues. Respect of himself by himself. Which was, when he thought of it—and he had
thought of it quite a bit lately—an almost impossible achievement. He never had known a father. His mother was, when all the illusions were dismissed, really nothing more than a whore. And a cheap one at that. His real name? Synkiewicz. Even in Milwaukee they had laughed at that. His education? The streets. The exercise yards of prisons. His occupation? Organized crime. Taking other people’s money. If necessary, hurting other people to get their money. Not out of malice. Out of necessity.
But now, such necessity did not exist, nor need it ever again. He, Doc Smythe, was finally a person like everyone else; he lived a life like everyone else; not just as an act, for some devious purpose, but as a result of what he, and Albert, and Marvin, and the prince had put together. Honestly. He earned what he now had, dammit.
But he would not be allowed to keep it unless he figured this whole new thing right. Doc was hardly naive, but that evening, following his talk with Joe Fiore, he was puzzled, disappointed, angered. The world to which he had aspired was not what it should be. Bankers were supposed to be gentlemen. Corporate executives were supposed to live by rule books, which quite definitely set down what was right and wrong for the upper middle class man to do, both in the office and at home. Strong-arm tactics, Nick Topping’s, and blackmail were supposed to be part of his old world, not this new one.
But they were part of both worlds. Perhaps equally. The only difference was that of terminology. The Joe Fiores weren’t bosses, they were Chairmen of Boards. His counterpart would be classified as a security consultant. Marvin’s alter ego in the good world would be known, and admired, as a creative accountant. Albert? No doubt a computer—a machine that was just as completely without ethics as its white-collared masters. And the prince. That was easy. The PR man who could arrange for the seduction of everything from the press, to politicians, to ambitious girls.
It was well past eleven o’clock, and the evening was warm, though not warm enough to sit outside. But Doc had wanted to be in the fresh air, alone. So he had been walking, first up the mountain road which extended eventually into a cul de sac above Garona, and now back to the villa that had become a home for Doc like nowhere else had ever been.
The Silver Bears Page 17