Death of a Pharaoh

by Death of a Pharaoh (mobi)

  “Great, how is everything going in Egypt?” Ryan asked with renewed interest.

  “My Lord, we are on schedule for the completion of the new tomb complex,” Herbert announced.

  “What about the problem at the current site?”

  “The Guardians are keeping a close watch on the Swiss,” Ethan assured him.

  “Do we have a solution for Mummy TP003 yet?”

  Only Ethan and Herbert knew what he meant.

  “A plan is imminent my Lord.”

  “Ok, let’s move on to Operation Baal.”

  Ethan was impressed with the Pharaoh’s command of the issues.

  “My Lord, we have moved forward with your idea of a safe house. The closer we get to Operation Baal, the more we risk discovery if we stay here. Our people have identified two large houses; one in the Cocody district and the other in Le Plateau. They are wealthy neighborhoods frequented by foreigners. Both homes are modern and surrounded by high walls. I’ll make the final selection later today. In two days, a cargo plane will arrive with a shipment of sophisticated communications equipment and a powerful antenna disguised as a solar panel.”

  “How long will it take to be operational?”

  “Less than a week,” Ethan assured him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Safe House, Le Plateau, Dakar, Senegal, 05:11 GMT October 19, 2016

  Zach smuggled Ryan out of Chief Mbaye’s compound in the back of a vegetable vendor’s truck under cover of the pre-dawn darkness. He drove him to the safe house by a circuitous route that lasted almost two hours. Only Ethan, Zach and now Ryan knew the location of the new operations center. Ethan was waiting with a smile to greet them. The Head of Security stayed permanently at the safe house on the presumption that enemy agents might have Chief Mbaye’s compound under watch. It was just past 7 am GMT on October 19th.

  “You smell like onions!” Ethan observed.

  “Good morning to you too,” Ryan replied grumpily. “Got any coffee?”

  “Follow me.”

  Ethan escorted the Pharaoh into the new operations center. Several communications specialists and traders sat in front of banks of computer screens. They all stood and bowed as he entered.

  “Everything is ready,” Ethan assured them as he poured Ryan and Zach cups of coffee.

  “Anything happening yet?” Ryan asked.

  “Crude is currently trading at a high of $127 for Brent Sweet Crude and we don’t expect any movement until just before the markets open in the United States at 3 pm GMT.”

  “How did we do on strategic petroleum reserves?”

  “The big three, United States, Japan and China are all on board.”

  “What about gold?”

  “The morning fix in London will take place in just over two hours and that should get their attention. The afternoon price will probably send them into a panic.”

  “Do our traders have everything they need?”

  “We were able to free up about forty-two billion in cash and we have arranged facilities with major banks around the world that will allow us to leverage our trades substantially.”

  “What about the hedging plan?”

  “Dr. Golding is on a dedicated line in London and he will signal when we should get out of the market, or about halfway into the decline. Panic selling will take over from there and we should actually make a decent profit before trading ends tomorrow.”

  “Excellent, pour me another coffee and then why don’t we generate the perfect storm?”

  Ethan walked over to a trader and authorized him to start selling gold. The Asian markets would still be open for another hour. The Falcon investment fund had more than 10 billion in gold bullion. The first sell order went through at 7.21 am at $1542 per ounce. Two hours later, the price had dropped by over a hundred dollars in afterhours trading in the Far East. Rumors began to circulate that several countries were considering selling some of their gold reserves to take advantage of the high price.

  Ethan brewed another pot of coffee.

  “How are things going with Mariam?” he inquired.

  Zach smiled knowingly.

  “Super, she is teaching me how to decipher hieroglyphics.”

  “Very romantic!” Ethan assured his friend.

  One of the traders walked over with a message.

  “My Lords, the Chinese government has just announced that they will begin drawing down part of their Strategic Petroleum Reserves effective immediately. Crude prices are tumbling.”

  Ryan high-fived Ethan and Zach.

  Stuart Bartlett parked his bicycle in the hallway of his building and bounded up the stairs to his elegant office with views of the Tower of London. Pedaling to work was an eccentricity he refused to give up, even in inclement weather. As Chairman of his own trading firm, he could well afford a car and driver but he adored the ride across the Thames every day. He settled in his leather executive chair on wheels and turned on the first of the four computer screens on his desk. He noticed that he had one hundred and seventeen new emails. They would have to wait.

  “Not before my first cup of tea!” he stated aloud in defiance of the tyranny of technology.

  He had thirty minutes before the London Gold Fix would come out and he was certain that there would be little change over yesterday. He was thoroughly enjoying the tinkling of the silver spoon against the china cup when the telephone on his desk rang.

  He sighed and picked up the phone. It was George Cummings, his head trader.

  “Have you checked the Asian markets?” his caller asked without even a good morning.

  “I just got in and I haven’t even finished my bloody cup of tea yet?” Stuart complained, “Why? What’s up?

  “Gold is down 10% in Asia and crude is heading south. The Chinese just announced that they are going to reduce imports and draw down their strategic reserves.”

  Bartlett spilt half a cup of tea in his lap as he sprang forward in his chair.

  “What the hell is happening?”

  “Beats me but it might make this a painful week if we can’t stop the downward trend.”

  “Get your people buying and call me back right after the morning fix.”

  Stuart had every reason to be concerned. As the main architect of the Consortium’s investment strategy, he had bet heavily that commodity prices would continue to rise in response to the artificially tight supply orchestrated by the group. An unusually large number of three-month contracts were due in the following days. A major drop in gold and oil prices would be disastrous. He glanced at his watch; the morning fix for gold should be out any moment.

  Stuart Bartlett stared at his computer screen, willing the number to be in line with his estimates. He was expecting $1,525 to 30, despite the selling pressure in Asia. The notification started to dance across the monitor in green letters. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The price was $1,381. A 10% drop from yesterday. He felt sick to his stomach.

  The red telephone rang. It was the direct line with the Chairman of the Special Operations Committee for the Consortium. He knew him only as David. Stuart reached for the phone and swallowed before picking it up.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He had to hold the receiver several inches from his ear because of the torrent of expletives that followed his greeting. The tirade ended with, “Turn it around or else!”

  The bad news came in waves throughout the day. Just before the markets opened in North America, the White House announced two Executive Orders. The first authorized the Department of Energy to begin drawing down the Strategic Petroleum Reserve by a total of four million barrels of sweet crude every day. Stuart knew the figure represented 25% of that nation’s daily requirements. It was insanity. The second was even worse. The President announced that his government would immediately sell fifteen million fine troy ounces of gold from their reserves. At this morning’s price, the total represented over two and half trillion dollars.

  Barely half an hour later, the Internation
al Monetary Fund and the European Central Bank announced similar measures that would dump an additional twenty-five million ounces on the market. The unofficial spot price was already below $1,250 and dropping fast. He could only hope that the afternoon fix would restore some stability to the market.

  The news from the International Petroleum Exchange was almost as frightening. The United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia issued statements that they would unilaterally raise oilfield production by a stunning 25% without even consulting their partners in OPEC. It was a nightmare. These people were making completely irrational decisions.

  The phone range from the trading floor; it was George again.

  “Stuart, I’m getting a flood of margin calls. We have several large future options that we have to settle before close of business today, both in gold and petroleum. Current prices are already well below the average contract price. We are going to take a heavy hit. I just got off the phone with treasury and they say that we can’t keep buying since we will need all of our cash to cover our exposure.”

  There was no response from Stuart. He was in shock.

  George insisted, “What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” he spat, “people will start to jump on the lower prices any time now. We’ll wait for the afternoon fix.

  It was the longest few hours of his life. A colleague phoned to report disagreement among the five members of The London Gold Market Fixing Ltd. That was a good sign. He knew the current Chairman, the representative of Scotia-Moccata, he wasn’t the type to let things get out of control.

  The 3 pm fix was $1,165. He buried his head in his hands. Gold had lost 25% of its value in one day. He jumped as his mobile phone rang. It was his wife’s number.

  “Darling, I am at the school to pick up Janet but she’s not here,” she announced. “The monitor told me that you sent a car for her and she left ten minutes ago. Is she there with you?”

  Stuart Bartlett hung up the phone without responding. They had his young daughter. They hadn’t even waited for the afternoon price. He knew that he would get parts of her in a box and he couldn’t live with the thought.

  He searched in his vest pocket for a silver key and opened the top right drawer of his desk. A thick pile of credit card receipts covered the polished mahogany box tucked in the back. He pulled it out and set it in front of him. His fingers shook and despite fumbling the key, he managed to open the top to reveal a small derringer nestled in red velvet, a gift from his late father who acquired it at auction. The gun once belonged to a famous broker on Wall Street who used it to commit suicide on October 29, 1929. His father thought it humorous in a macabre sort of way. Thank God he wasn’t alive.

  Bartlett took it in his hands and made certain it was loaded. He heard the street entrance open and the sound of someone heavy racing up the stairs. He placed the gun in his mouth. His last sensation was the spreading warmth in his lap as he pissed himself. He pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Safe House, Le Plateau, Dakar, Senegal, 11:06 GMT October 21, 2016

  Ryan and Ethan had barely moved from their chairs in the past 48 hours, except to take alternating naps. They were in continuous contact with Herbert Lewis in Philadelphia. The first day of Operation Baal was an unqualified success. Gold prices dropped 25% and crude was down a whopping 32%. Prices recovered slightly at market opening on the second day but quickly plunged on rumors that the International Monetary Fund would do nothing to support gold. Earlier, it dipped below $1000 before recovering. The petroleum market was in free fall. Only the warning that a further drop would force producers to shut down a significant part of oil sands production in Canada returned some stability to the market.

  Mr. Golding was still tallying up the damage to the Consortium, but his initial estimates put their direct losses at more than four trillion dollars. The Falcon Investment fund actually turned a profit and now held more than seventy-four billion in cash. Ryan ordered that they distribute 50% of that amount to NGOs to purchase wheat, rice and other food staples for immediate distribution to areas suffering famine.

  Delighted with the results, Ryan indicated to Zach that he wanted to return to Chief Mbaye’s compound. He was looking forward to seeing Mariam again. He missed her smile. Ethan would remain in the safe house to monitor the financial markets and any reaction from the Consortium. They had already heard of the broker’s fate and that of his daughter. They would need to be vigilant.

  On the long drive back to the compound, Ryan made a major decision. He had just waged the equivalent of an economic nuclear war and spent sums of money with more zeroes than he could even imagine. He equated himself well and his grandmother would have been proud. All he needed now was a pair of royal balls and the guts to ask Mariam on a date.

  As soon as he arrived, the Chief invited him for tea. Ryan had grown fond of the ritual. They talked about the heat and the lack of rain. Senegal was near the end of its wet season but precipitation had been well below normal that year. The Chief waited to serve the third cup before he even commented on the economic tsunami that swamped the Consortium’s economic armada.

  “My accountant tells me that my pension fund has been decimated and I presume that I have you to blame for that,” he complained with a twinkle in his eye. “I might need to ask for relief from the royal treasury.”

  “No problem, we actually did quite well in our trading,” Ryan assured him, “I can’t say the same for our enemies.”

  “Remember your wise words about a wounded animal,” the Chief reminded him.

  “Ethan is beefing up security.”

  “Despite these dramatic events, you mustn’t neglect your preparations for the coronation, my Lord.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I came back this morning,” Ryan informed him.

  “And the others?” The Chief was intrigued.

  “Do you think I could invite Mariam out for dinner tonight?”

  “That is a question you must ask her,” the Chief replied trying to hide his delight.

  “Right, it’s just that, um, I thought maybe, uh…”

  Chief Mbaye said nothing to make it any easier on him.

  “What time should I have her back?”

  “That is your decision but any adverse reaction from me as her guardian would pale in comparison to Lord Thoth’s ire,” he warned.

  “Great, I’ll keep that in mind,” his voice less confident all of a sudden.

  “I’ll inform my niece you wish to see her and I’ll ask Ethan to come by later to coordinate any security arrangements for the occasion.” Chief Mbaye then added, “Another cup of tea?”

  It was much easier than Ryan feared. She seemed thrilled and accepted right away. The news spread like wildfire through the compound. Chief Mbaye called his cousin to request the use of a modest beach house on the coast not far from Lake Malika. He explained it was for friends from America. There was a traditional boat available for some line fishing before sunset. An atmosphere of excitement invaded the afternoon and Ryan couldn’t remember so many smiles among the staff. The chambermaid giggled every time she looked at him. It felt good after so much accumulated tension. He recalled his last experience with Maria Fanelli over a year ago and his ignominious escape through the back gate. So much had happened since then. As a precaution, he requested lots of candles.

  Ryan expected a different reaction from his friend Ethan.

  “I just won five hundred bucks,” his Chief of Security exalted. “I was starting to lose hope.”

  “Is there anyone who didn’t bet on my private life?”

  “Not that I know of,” he responded honestly, “there was an even bigger pool running in Philadelphia.”

  “How much did you bet?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “Must have gotten great odds.”

  “Yeah, most people thought you’d take much longer.”

  “Where was the even money?”

  Ethan hesitated.

  Ryan’s l
ook demanded an answer.

  ‘When Hell Freezes Over,” his friend replied.

  “I guess I deserve that,” Ryan replied sheepishly.

  “What do you have in mind for the date?”

  “A romantic sunset dinner on the beach, Chief Mbaye has arranged a place.”

  “I’ll get to work on the transportation and security,” Ethan promised with a huge grin. “I’ll leave Zach and Tony in charge here.”

  “OK, but brief your security team on discretion.”

  “Speaking of protection, do I need to stop at a pharmacy for anything?”

  Ryan felt himself blushing.

  Stevenson was having a bad week. On Wednesday, he watched in horror as the Consortium lost hundreds of billions in a matter of hours. The call from London came that same evening. They were furious and wanted to invoke the clause in Sonkin’s contract where the monies in escrow would revert to them in case of his death. The fact that he was very much alive didn’t seem to bother them. They were having cash flow problems. He broke into a sweat when they told him about the broker and how his wife learned of his suicide in a phone call, a moment before a courier service delivered the four boxes containing her young daughter’s remains. The poor woman collapsed on the spot. She was in hospital, heavily sedated, and under police protection.

  Both Stevenson’s parents were dead. He’d never liked his two siblings to be honest and cared less if anything happened to them. His concern was for his own throat. The end of the last conversation with his Consortium contact dripped with more threats than a vampire drooling over someone’s exposed neck. He desperately needed a success.

  Vinnie accepted the contract on Sonkin with his usual paucity of words.

  “I’ll even spring for the Russian whore if she is with him,” Stevenson offered just to tie up loose ends.

  The Italian grunted his agreement.

  “By the way, have some fun,” he exhorted, “use your imagination.”

  “Thanks boss!”

  The lawyer almost detected a quiver of excitement in Vinnie’s voice before he hung up.