It was Thursday, May 12, 1968, when Doc boarded the Alitalia flight for London. The airlines had not yet gotten around to installing their fancy detection devices, so Doc was not at all concerned about the fact that he had a .32 pistol strapped inside his jacket. He was concerned that Donald Luckman had brought his wife with him. He had sat beside her in the back seat of the limo all the way to the airport. They had exchanged but a few polite words. But it was impossible to avoid constant physical contact as the car wove its way down the Autostrada from Lugano to the Milan airport. Donald Luckman had said even less. He’d just nervously clutched his briefcase in his lap. It held the audit report which would recommend that the First National Bank of California buy a small bank in Lugano for $60 million. The man who had made it possible, Nick Topping, had occupied the front seat, and had further occupied himself with a running commentary on Italian drivers. He was the only one that seemed happy.
He was still happy in the airplane, as it proceeded across the Alps toward England.
“Say,” he said to Doc who sat beside him, “that Debbie Luckman is something else.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” replied Doc.
“But her husband!” continued Topping. “I think he’s going to have a heart attack before this is all over. Did you read his report?”
“Partially.”
“Actually, you guys put together a pretty good bank there. But the best reading was about that phony stuff Marvin put together. Christ, he’s really good. And I like his grin. We could probably use somebody like him.”
“Yeah,” said Doc, “couldn’t we all.”
“What’s your problem, anyway, Doc? You said that Albert had wrapped everything up down in Iran. You haven’t got a worry in the world now.”
“Oh no?”
“Look, forget about that bank. And the Fiores. I’ve set up that meeting with Mr. Cook. He’s going to like you.”
“For when?”
“Tomorrow morning. At ten.”
“Where?”
“His place.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the country.”
“How’ll I get there?”
“I’ll take you. Where are you staying?”
“The Carlton Tower.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine. O.K.?”
“Yeah. If something happens, where can I reach you.”
“At Mr. Cook’s place.”
“Got his telephone number?”
“Sure. You have to call long distance from London. Place called Marlowe. In Buckinghamshire. Number’s 86083. Got that?”
Doc got it, and wrote it down on the back of his airplane ticket.
Then he got up to stretch his legs. Donald Luckman immediately joined him in the aisle.
“Are you sure those shares will be in London?” he asked.
“I told you so, didn’t I,” was the surly response.
“Well, they’d better be. Mr. Foreman is coming tomorrow from San Francisco, and he expects to close this deal in the afternoon.”
“How come you’re so eager, all of a sudden?”
“I’m not eager. I just want to make sure. Now, we expect you to be at Winthrop’s Bank with the shares, and with proof of 100 percent ownership of that, uh, property in Iran. At three.”
“Otherwise Mr. Foreman is going to spank you, right?”
“He wants everything reconfirmed tomorrow. You should call me at my hotel at two.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
After which Doc returned to his seat. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to anyone after passing through customs. He called Albert when he arrived at the hotel. They drank one Scotch at the bar.
Doc told Albert what the schedule was. Three at Winthrop’s Bank. On Lombard Street. He should bring the shares, which he assumed Albert had. Albert had.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby here at 2:30,” said Doc, after he had paid the bar bill.
“Why don’t we have breakfast or at least lunch together?”
“Because I’m going to be busy.”
“Oh?”
“And Albert, if something comes up, you can give me a call at this number.” He handed him the ripped off corner of an airplane ticket,
“Doc, you’re not . . .”
“Albert, go to bed. It’s a big day tomorrow.”
Albert did so, but had great trouble falling asleep. Not Doc.
Long ago he had learned that a good night’s rest was indispensable before a job.
To get to Buckinghamshire from Knightsbridge is easy. Cross Hyde Park past the Serpentine, then circle the Royal Lancaster Hotel and proceed a few blocks north to Western Avenue. Then a left, direction Oxford, down the A40. First it’s a row of factories, but slowly it thins out, and suddenly you are in the middle of the green and pleasant countryside which is uniquely English.
“How long a drive is it?” asked Doc.
“An hour. Not even, at this time of day,” was Topping’s reply.
“How come Cook lives way out there?”
“He likes his privacy.”
By 9:30 they had reached Gerrards Cross, and a few miles later approached Beaconsfield. Then a left took them toward the Thames valley.
“Hey, Topping. How come they call this Buckinghamshire?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Say, you drive pretty good on the wrong side of the road.”
“Practice, my friend. You’ll catch on a lot quicker than you think.”
“What makes you think I plan on staying that long?”
“You’ll stay.” They sped on.
“Nick,” continued Doc, after a long pause, “where’s the airport from here?”
“What do you want to know that for?”
“Maybe I’ll want to settle down here after all.”
“You could pick worse spots. Actually, Heathrow is very near. If you head back toward London you just have to take a right at the traffic signal in Gerrards Cross. Down Windsor Road.”
“And then?”
“Just stay on it until you get to Slough. There you pick up the M4, and you’re at the airport in ten minutes.”
Closer than I figured, thought Doc. The only problem is when, and where to after that. I’ll have to get out of Europe, that’s for sure. And stay away from the States for a while too, until Joe cools off.
“Frank Cook must have a lot of people in that house of his?”
“What makes you think that?” countered Topping.
“He runs a big show, right?”
“Sure. But not from his home. He’s just got an old bag of a secretary. Ugly. Talks like she’s got marbles in her mouth. And a chauffeur, who’s also the gardener.”
“That’s all?”
“I told you. Frank Cook likes his privacy. He comes into the offices in London about twice a month. For maybe two or three hours. He likes to use the telephone. Well, we’re almost here.”
“I thought you said it was on the river?”
“It is. Just hold your horses a minute, Doc. What are you so nervous about all of a sudden?”
I’ve got my reasons, thought Doc.
The car was already in the outskirts of Marlowe when it swung left down a narrow, hedged lane. At the end of the lane were huge gates, and on either side of the gates, high brick walls. Topping left the car running, and repeatedly pushed a button mounted below a loudspeaker, imbedded in the wall to the left. A loud bell sounded three times. A few minutes later a stocky man in gardener’s clothing appeared.
“Mr. Topping, sir,” he said. “Is the Gov’nor expecting you?”
“He is, Henry.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” He picked up a phone from a wooden box mounted on the other side of the gate, said a few words, hung up, and without any further conversation unlocked the gates and swung them open.
“Thanks, Henry,” yelled Topping, as they passed through. Almost immediately the gates began to close.
“Not quite as easy a
s Topping pretended, thought Doc, as he observed every move. But still—easy enough.
Topping pulled up the Ford Cortina beside a gray Daimler in the large area at the side of the house, adjacent to the stables. The smell of freshly mown grass filled the air as the two men stepped out. It was quiet. No dogs, Doc noted.
“You want to see the river, right?”
“Why not,” replied Doc, “as long as it’s there.”
It was there, he found out, separated from the back of the mansion by a vast expanse of lawn and gardens. The Thames at this point more resembled the Avon than the huge dirty river one is used to from London. It was Friday, so for many English the weekend had already started. Having picked up their rented motor launches at Maidenhead, or perhaps Bourne End, they were wending their way up toward Oxford, navigating lock after lock with some difficulty, but trying to give the impression that every Englishman is a born sailor.
“Nice,” commented Doc.
“Yeah,” said Topping.
That took care of the tourist end of things. It was a very bright day, so Doc put on his sunglasses. This proved to be a mistake, because when he followed Topping through the curtained French doors that led into the house from the terrace at the rear, he could not see a thing. Not only was it dark, but cold as well. He shivered.
Topping looked at his watch.
“We’re two minutes early. Take a seat.”
Sunglasses off, and with eyes rapidly adjusting, Doc quickly scanned the room. It was vast, heavily carpeted, lined with objects of art varying from vases on pedestals to massively framed oil paintings. The only lighting in the place came from a large glassed-in cabinet in one corner. Doc decided not to sit down, but to walk over and investigate.
“Gawd,” was his comment. “Is it all real?”
“The jade? Sure. Mr. Cook has one of the best collections in the world. Bought most of it from Farouk after they kicked him out of Egypt. He says he paid less than a million dollars for it then. Who knows what it’s worth today.”
The door at the far end of the room opened. A very thin middleaged woman emerged.
“Mister Cook will see you now,” she articulated. Topping was right, thought Doc. She sounds like she’s got a mouthful of crumpets.
Topping led the way. The first impression Doc had was of books. Thousands and thousands of them lining the wall. Then the fireplace. Not the usual coal-burning affair, but one which contained a roaring wood fire. It provided the only light in the room. There were obviously windows, but they had been heavily curtained. In front of the curtains was a massive oak desk, with not a paper on it. Behind the desk sat Frank Cook.
He was thin. His hair was white and combed straight back. He wore a blue jacket, with silver buttons down the front and on each sleeve. But all this seemed to merely provide a setting for the dominant feature: his eyes. They actually glinted. No doubt it was only the mirror effect, produced by the darting flames from the fireplace. But they were eyes which one never forgot. Nor the eyebrows. Heavy, like those of Ben Gurian. Completely white. The eyelids were half closed. And they stayed that way. For a full minute Frank Cook’s gaze held Doc, unblinkingly. Doc stood there as if mesmerized.
“Be seated. No. Here.” Frank Cook’s hand motioned toward two chairs directly opposite his desk. The voice was flat. Not English. Not American. But also not showing any traces of continental origin. As Doc took the chair that had been assigned to him, he noticed two further things. Cook’s right hand remained out of sight. And when seated, his head was a good foot higher than the level of his visitors.
“Mr. Smythe. You wanted to see me. What about?”
“The silver mine at Choga Zambil.”
“Yes?”
“We now own it. One hundred percent.”
“And?”
“I propose we deal directly.”
“Spell it out.”
“Call off the First National Bank of California.”
“Then?”
“Then we continue with our banking business in Switzerland as before. And we give you half of that mine. For nothing. You can run it. We’ll just stay on as silent partners.”
“So. You are offering me something for nothing. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“But you are also taking away something for nothing. The other half of the mine which you want to retain.”
“Incorrect. You will have to pay almost $100 million for ownership of that mine. My way, you will not have to invest one nickel.”
“What’s that mine worth?”
“Probably a quarter of a billion.”
“Half of a quarter of a billion is one eighth of a billion. That’s what you expect me to give you.”
“Yes, if you put it that way. As I said, you are going to have to pay out almost a hundred million as it is. The difference between oneeighth billion and one hundred million is small. And we, as your partners, take half the risk off your hands. You must admit, there is risk in any mining venture. Even this one.”
“Smythe, you’re good. Very good. But the answer is no. Not because what you say doesn’t make sense. It does. But it conflicts with the one basic rule I have always followed in business. Always. Do you want to know what it is?”
Doc did not reply.
“I will tell you,” continued Cook. The whole time the only movement from behind the desk was provided by his lips. His head, his hand, his body—all remained completely immobile. And his eyes kept boring in, unrelenting. “No partners. Ever. Including now. And including you. That’s final.”
Doc hesitated for no more than two seconds. “As I understand it then—you’d rather be dead than have me as a partner.
“Mr. Smythe,” replied Cook, “if you have nothing further to add, you probably should leave.”
Nick Topping sat about four feet to the right of Doc, sunk well down into his chair. Frank Cook was about ten feet away, almost dead ahead. The secretary had disappeared. The room, with its unbroken line of bookcases on both sides, the heavily curtained windows at the end, would be as soundproof as one could wish for. And the gardener was hardly standing right outside.
The phone rang. Frank Cook let it ring, not taking his eyes off of Doc for one second. Doc stared right back. Topping, puzzled by what was going on, finally couldn’t take it any longer.
“The phone,” he said. For the first time, Frank Cook looked at Topping.
“Take it.” As Topping rose, Cook’s eyes went back to Doc. A very light smile crossed his face.
Topping barely had the phone in his hands when he swung around, with an utterly surprised look on his face.
“Doc, it’s for you. Albert.”
As Doc got up to take the receiver, Frank Cook’s right arm moved slightly. But the hand remained out of sight. Doc’s senses were at a screaming pitch. Unless he kept control of himself, he’d blow everything. Because somehow Frank Cook seemed to know.
He put the receiver to his ear and listened. For three minutes—one hundred and eighty long seconds—without saying a word. Then:
“Yes, Albert, I heard. I understand.” With that, he carefully hung up. And as he sunk back into his chair, his features seemed to shrink. His face was ashen. His hands shook.
“Bad news, Mr. Smythe?” Cook’s eyes had not missed a thing.
“Yes. I’m afraid I have been wasting your time.”
“Your partners double-crossed you?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“So you see what I meant just a few minutes ago. Never, never have partners.”
Now his right hand appeared on top of the desk. It held a Smith and Wesson .45. A small cannon.
“Anyway,” continued Cook, “what you had in mind would never have worked. But I admire you for considering it.”
The hand reached to the right and opened a drawer. It deposited the .45 and closed the drawer silently.
“Smythe, I want to talk to you when this is over,” said Cook.
“You’re all that Topp
ing said you were. And a lot more. I think we could work together. Though not as partners.” Frank Cook stood up suddenly and extended his hand.
Doc also rose, seemed to think it over, and then grasped it, firmly.
“Mr. Cook,” he said, “you win. I guess you’re used to winning. But sometime, somebody’s bound to get you. In the meantime, I’ll think over your offer.”
Then to Topping, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Topping looked to Frank Cook, and got the nod.
The sunlight almost blinded Doc when they emerged from the house. Neither Topping nor he spoke a word to each other until they were halfway back to London. Finally Topping broke the silence.
“Doc, are you really carrying a shooter?”
“Yes.”
“You crazy son-of-a-bitch.”
“So crazy I’m not, especially with you around. But if that phone hadn’t rung, I would have been back there.”
“You sure are a crazy son-of-a-bitch. But Mr. Cook likes you, just like I told you he would.”
Topping dropped Doc at the Carlton Tower. Doc went straight to the bar and had a drink. Then another. At 2:30 he met Albert in the lobby. Albert had a large cardboard box in his arms. At three they entered the venerable old London merchant bank, Winthrop’s.
Sir Robert Winthrop himself was there to greet them. The others had already arrived. They were waiting upstairs. George Foreman, Chairman of the First National Bank of California, did not bother to rise when they entered the room. So neither did Donald Luckman. In fact, Foreman chose to ignore the presence of both Doc and Albert completely. Without even glancing at them he asked Sir Robert whether everyone was present. Winthrop was used to eccentric behavior, having been a merchant banker for almost forty years, he just let his eyes move from one person to the next, deliberately, and announced that yes, it would seem so.
Then he solemnly intoned his thanks that both parties had chosen his bank to act as the escrow agent in this transaction. Winthrop’s, in its 329-year history, had provided a helping hand to many a deal which had, later, been looked back upon as financial milestones. It was especially a pleasure to be acting on behalf of two such venerable banks as the First National of California and the Bank of Sicily and America. The fact that the latter was as unvenerable as banks come didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
The Silver Bears Page 20