The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  'Hi, Chris, thanks for waiting.' It was Eric. 'I hoped I could get away early this evening, and I think I still can, but something's come up. I'll be another twenty minutes or so.'

  'Can I wait in your office?'

  'Sorry,' Eric said. 'You're not allowed beyond those doors. Security is everything in M&A these days.'

  'I understand,' Chris said. 'But I wonder if I could ask you a quick favour. I thought I'd try to track down George Calhoun tomorrow. I know he got the boot from here a year ago, but I don't know where he is. Who can I ask?'

  'George Calhoun, eh?' said Eric. 'Don't worry. I'll get someone to find out,' and with that he disappeared back behind the mysterious glass doors.

  Chris spotted a phone in a quiet corner of the reception area, and asked the woman behind the desk whether he could use it. No problem. Chris dialled Carpathian's office. Ollie was still there, and he was agitated.

  'Bad news.'

  Chris's heart sank. 'What now?'

  'It's Melville Capital Management. They want out.'

  Chris closed his eyes. Melville was a small firm, based in Princeton, that managed the endowment funds of half a dozen private colleges across the United States. They were a relatively small investor in the fund, at three million euros. But after his disastrous meeting with Rudy, the withdrawal of another three million was the last thing the fund needed. And two investors jumping ship could be enough to scare the rest of them.

  'Did they give any reason?'

  'No. Just that they wanted to give their thirty days' notice.'

  Although Lenka was the main point of contact with all of the investors, Chris had met most of them a couple of times. But not Melville. He remembered his phone call to them to inform them of her death. 'Who's the man there? Something Zissky, isn't it?'

  'Dr Martin Zizka,' said Ollie.

  'Give me his number.'

  Ollie read out the digits.

  'Thanks.'

  'What are you going to do?' asked Ollie.

  'Tell him he's staying in the fund.'

  'Good luck.' Then, in a tentative voice. 'How did it go with Amalgamated Veterans?'

  'You don't want to know.'

  Chris hung up, and punched out the number Ollie had given him.

  'Zizka,' a voice answered, so quietly Chris could barely hear it.

  'Dr Zizka?'

  'Yes?'

  'This is Chris Szczypiorski of the Carpathian Fund.'

  'Ah, yes.' Zizka didn't sound exactly pleased to hear from him.

  'I understand you are thinking of withdrawing your investment.'

  'That is correct.'

  'Melville Capital is a very important investor to us, and we'd be sorry to lose you. I wonder if it would be possible to meet you to discuss this further.'

  As Chris had expected, Zizka didn't sound thrilled with this proposal. 'Aren't you based in London?'

  'I'm in New York at the moment. I could come and see you tomorrow.'

  'Oh, I see. I'm very busy all day tomorrow. I'm not sure I have any free time.'

  'Dr Zizka. All I need is half an hour. As I said, you are an important investor to me. And I know you were important to Lenka as well.' Chris winced as he said this, but he knew he had to use Lenka's name all he could if he were to keep Carpathian intact.

  Zizka sighed. 'All right. Four o'clock. But it really will be half an hour. I have a meeting at four thirty.'

  'That's fine, Dr Zizka. I'll see you then.'

  Chris was just putting the phone down when Eric returned. 'What's up?' he asked, noticing the expression on Chris's face.

  'Don't ask. It serves me right for checking in with the office.'

  Eric smiled sympathetically. 'Always a mistake. Now let's get out of here before someone else grabs me.'

  They swept out of the building, and just as Chris was wondering whether Eric would insist on taking a taxi to the train station rather than the subway, a black limo swept up, leaving half a dozen similar vehicles behind it. A driver leapt out and opened the door for Chris and then Eric.

  'This is Terry,' Eric said. 'He'll take you to see George Calhoun tomorrow morning. You are staying the night, aren't you?'

  'If you don't mind.'

  'That's great. You don't want to come all the way back into the city late at night.'

  'So where do you live?' asked Chris, as the limo, which was really just a large saloon car, pulled away from the front of the Bloomfield Weiss building.

  'On Long Island. A place called Mill Neck. It's right near Oyster Bay.'

  It was rush hour, and it took them over an hour to fight through the traffic. Eric spent most of his time on the phone. It wasn't for show, there seemed to be two live deals going on at the same time. Chris pretended not to listen, but of course he did. Eric was frustratingly vague, and kept on telling people he 'couldn't talk now', although he did mention Rome, Munich and Dallas a lot. He was talking to someone called Sergio about someone else called Jim. Some big Italian deal, perhaps with a US company based in Texas?

  After a particularly obscure session, Eric turned to Chris. 'Do me a favour. Don't try to guess what's going on.'

  'Of course not,' said Chris.

  Eric sighed. 'You'd think just one night I'd be able to leave at five o'clock, wouldn't you?' Then his phone chirped its tune again.

  Eventually they were on a small country road that wound its way through woods, past mansions surrounded by high walls and snatches of sea shifting darkly in the moonlight. After a couple of miles, they rounded a bend; Terry pressed a remote control, a set of iron gates swung open, and the car pulled up in front of a rectangular white house bathed in a soft light from the lamps placed strategically around it.

  'We're here,' said Eric.

  'Is this the place you showed me on the boat? The place you said you always wanted to buy? Wasn't it designed by some fancy architect?'

  'Meier. That's right. I'd forgotten I'd shown you that. You have a good memory.'

  'I remember that night, at least.'

  'Yeah. Well, come inside.'

  They got out of the car, and Terry drove off. Chris was almost expecting a footman, but it turned out that Eric had his own set of house keys, and was capable of using them himself. 'Hi!' he shouted, as they entered a huge hallway, with a wide set of stairs heading upwards.

  A slender woman in jeans and socks, with her fair hair tied back, appeared and gave Eric an affectionate kiss.

  'Chris, this is Cassie.'

  'Hi,' she said with a friendly smile, and held out her hand to be shaken. There was a cry of 'Dad!' and a small boy with blond curly hair, who looked very much like his mother, hurtled into the hallway and grabbed his father's leg.

  'And this is Wilson.'

  'Howdeedodee,' said the boy, from between Eric's legs.

  'Hello,' said Chris.

  Eric heaved the boy up into his arms. 'Do you mind if I go up and read him his story?'

  'No, go ahead,' said Chris, and followed Cassie into a huge kitchen. He passed an Hispanic woman who was putting on her coat.

  'Good night, Mrs Cassie.'

  'Good night, Juanita. Thank you.'

  Cassie poured Chris some white wine and attended to the cooker, set on a kind of marble island in the middle of the vast room. 'Wilson's thrilled to have his dad home in time to put him to bed,' she said. 'He won't be long.'

  'Are you working at the moment?' Chris asked.

  'Part time. Since Wilson was born and we bought this place, it seemed a shame to spend the whole time in the city. I have a PR company. Fortunately, my partners are extremely good, but there are lots of evening functions that I still have to go to, which are kind of a drag.'

  'This is a nice house.'

  'We like it. Eric's family comes from round here.'

  'I know. What about you?'

  'Philadelphia. The Main Line. It's handy for Washington, which seems to be where all my family end up.'

  'Including Eric?'

  Cassie smiled. 'Probably.
He can tell you about that himself. Now, how do you know Eric? He did tell me, but I find it difficult to keep track of all his friends.'

  'We were on the Bloomfield Weiss training programme together. Ten years ago.'

  'Do you still work there?'

  Chris smiled. 'No, thank God.'

  Cassie laughed. 'They all say that. I don't know how Eric survives.'

  'He seems to be doing rather well.'

  'I don't believe it,' said Cassie. 'I'm convinced he works in the mailroom. Have you seen his office?'

  'No.'

  'Precisely. Nobody has. And he calls his horoscope line every few minutes on his cell phone so that I'll think he's important.'

  'And then the horoscope line rings him back?'

  'Maybe it's got callback. I don't know. Eric would. He does seem to know about telephones.'

  Chris laughed. Megan was right: Cassie was a nice woman. And attractive.

  'He says he spends a lot of time out of the country,' Chris said.

  'Tell me about it.' Cassie rolled her eyes. 'But I think he genuinely does try to get back here whenever he can. Here, help yourself to another glass if you like.'

  After twenty minutes or so, Eric joined them, and they all carried dinner through to the dining room. The table, chairs and cutlery were over-designed modern stuff, and didn't look as though they were meant to be used for a real dinner at all. But Chris's attention was grabbed by a painting on one wall. It was the picture of the petrochemical plant in the Saudi Arabian desert that he knew so well.

  'I recognize that,' he said.

  'Yeah,' said Eric. 'I think it was Alex's best. His mother gave it to me.'

  'I'm glad you've kept it.'

  They sat down. Another wall of the room was entirely glass, and it gave a terrific view of the bay and lights twinkling in the distance.

  'Is that Oyster Bay?' Chris asked.

  That's right,' said Eric.

  'Do your parents still live there?'

  'Not any more. Five years ago, my father ran off to California with some awful woman twenty years younger than him. My mother was so ashamed she moved out of town as well.'

  'I'm sorry,' Chris said.

  Eric sighed. 'That kind of thing happens in families, these days. I've got to say, it was quite a shock. Dad never struck me as that kind of man.'

  Chris changed the subject. 'This is delicious,' he said, digging in to the exotic salad Cassie had made. And it was. So was the main course, tuna steaks in a pineapple salsa sauce, and there was crème brûlée afterwards. The evening passed very pleasantly, and then Cassie announced she was going up to bed.

  'Would you like a cognac, Chris?' Eric asked.

  'Here, I'll help you with the dishes first,' Chris said.

  'Oh, don't worry about them,' said Eric. 'Juanita will deal with them in the morning.'

  Chris paused for a second, thinking how nice it would be never to have to do the washing up after dinner parties, then followed Eric through to a large living room, with very little furniture and acres of empty floor space. Embers were glowing in a large open fireplace. It all looked good, but Chris suspected that Wilson spent very little time in there. Eric poured two brandies from a smooth curvilinear decanter.

  'Thanks for putting in a good word about me to Rudy Moss.'

  'No problem. How did it go?'

  'Waste of time,' said Chris. 'I had to try it, and I thought that I'd be able to persuade him, but he wasn't having any of it. I reckon he just wanted to demonstrate his power over me. Gave him some kind of kicks I suppose. Nasty little man.'

  Eric smiled. 'It's a shame someone so bright could be such a jerk.'

  'The fund's in real trouble now. I'm going to have to sell some bonds to raise the cash to pay Rudy out, and the market timing is all wrong. Bloomfield Weiss won't give me a decent bid for that stupid Eureka Telecom position Ian Darwent stuffed us with. And now another investor wants out. I don't know what I'm going to do.'

  'You'll figure it out,' said Eric.

  'I wish I had your confidence. I'd hate to let Lenka down.'

  'Don't take it so personally. She'd understand.'

  No, she wouldn't, Chris thought. She would fight tooth and nail to save Carpathian. And so should he.

  'Have you tracked down Marcus Lubron yet?' Eric asked.

  'Not yet. That's tomorrow's task. Once I've seen George Calhoun.'

  'Oh, yes. What on earth do you want to see him for? That really is a bad memory I'd like to keep in the past.'

  Chris told Eric all about his discussion with Abby Hollis. Eric listened closely. When he had finished, Chris asked him about Alex taking drugs.

  'I knew he did some drugs occasionally,' said Eric. 'But it was no big deal. It's not like he had a problem or anything. We didn't talk about it much.'

  'Until he got caught.'

  'Even then. Of course, he was really worried about it, and when I asked him, he eventually told me what was wrong. But he didn't want to discuss it.'

  'Abby said that Calhoun was threatening him.'

  'Probably. Something was going on. But as I said, he didn't want my help. I respected that. He and I were good friends, I knew him well. The thing with Alex was, sometimes he just wanted to be left alone. And that was one of those times.'

  'So you don't know specifically what was going on?'

  Eric shook his head.

  'And you didn't say anything about it afterwards to any of us?'

  'No way,' said Eric. 'It just didn't seem the right thing to talk about. Especially after what happened to him. Whatever his problems were, they died with him.'

  'I'm trying to think how this might be related to Lenka's death,' Chris said.

  Eric looked blank. 'I can't see how. Why should it be?'

  'Well, I know Lenka wanted to tell Marcus something before she died. I'm pretty sure now that it was more than just Duncan knocking Alex into the sea. I thought maybe it had something to do with Alex getting caught with drugs.'

  Eric frowned. 'I can't see a possible connection.'

  Chris sighed. 'Maybe Marcus can tell me. If I can find him.'

  'Perhaps,' said Eric. 'Let me know.'

  Chris leaned back in his chair by the warm fire, and sipped his brandy. He looked across at Eric. Although he had a glittering future, indeed, was already living one, in many ways he was the most straightforward of Chris's friends from the programme. Duncan was an emotional wreck, Ian had become cynical and selfish as his career had progressed, but Eric was still basically a friend. He didn't have anything to prove to Chris, and there was no point in Chris trying to compete with him. He was glad it was Eric, not Ian, who had done so well.

  'What is it?' asked Eric.

  'Oh, nothing,' said Chris. 'Are you still intending to go into politics?'

  Eric smiled. 'I guess so.'

  'Everything seems to be going according to plan so far.'

  'Partly. I'm making good money at Bloomfield Weiss, and I've also made some lucky investments. You can make excellent contacts in this business; it's amazing how grateful a big company boss can be if you help him make the biggest acquisition of his career. The problem is I never have any time for all the schmoozing. I'm going to have to figure out how to make more time. But yes, I'm still interested.'

  'And you'd be following in the family tradition.'

  Eric looked at Chris sharply. 'You mean Cassie's family? Wilson's a good man. I respect him. I can learn a lot from him.'

  It took a moment for Chris to realize that he was talking about his father-in-law. Eric had even named his son after Cassie's father! But perhaps Chris was being too cynical: some American families did that, he supposed. Chris could see Eric felt sensitive about the whole subject.

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Good luck with it. You deserve to go far.'

  'We'll see,' said Eric. But he didn't smile. His tone was surprisingly serious. This was clearly more than an idle fancy. Suddenly the edge of Eric's ambition, which he kept well hidden, but which Megan
had spoken about, showed through. But what was wrong with that? They were all ambitious, Chris included. That was, after all, why they had been so enthusiastically swept up by Bloomfield Weiss.

  11

  Eric's driver Terry opened the door of the limo, and Chris climbed in. It was nine o'clock: Terry had already driven Eric into Manhattan several hours earlier, and Cassie had left at eight, leaving Juanita in charge of the house and Wilson.

  'You know where we're going, I hope,' said Chris to the closely cropped blond hair at the back of the driver's head.

  'Westchester,' Terry replied. 'Home of a Mr George Calhoun. Don't worry. I know the way.'

  'It's good of you to take me,' said Chris.

  'Whatever the boss says.'

  'I didn't know Bloomfield Weiss ran to limos for managing directors.'

  Terry laughed. 'I don't think they do. This is more of a private arrangement. I drive for Mr Astle when I don't have any other work.'

  'I see. And what is that work?'

  'Personal bodyguard. That's how we met. I got Mr Astle out of a tough situation in Kazakhstan a couple years back. I've done quite a bit for him since then.'

  This surprised and intrigued Chris. 'I didn't realize Eric needed a bodyguard. What happened?'

  'Attempted kidnapping. We got away.'

  'Wow. Investment banking must be getting more dangerous than in my day.'

  'Not really. I only accompany clients to particularly troublesome parts of the world. Or to meet particularly dangerous people. Even then, ninety-five per cent of my job is just watching and waiting. But occasionally I need to put my training into action. I haven't lost a client yet.'

  'So I'll make it to Westchester?'

  Terry laughed. 'You'll make it to Westchester, sir.'

  They pulled into the lines of traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

  'Pardon me for asking, but are you related to Stanislaw Szczypiorski?' Terry asked.

  'I am. I'm his son. But you're about the first person I've ever come across who's heard of him. Do you play chess?'

  'Sure. And I like reading the books, going through the old matches. I have an old book on the King's Indian Defence that features a lot of his games. They even have a variation named after him.'

  'That's right. It was his favourite opening as black.'