Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series)

by Neil Behrmann

  'What an idiot!' I thought to myself, looking across to Maggie and now understanding why she didn't insist that I wear a condom when we had made love. She just sat there silently, hoping that the moment would pass.

  'What's IV . . .?' Tess couldn't finish the question, as I gently bumped her with my elbow. She looked at me crossly, but then noticed me put a finger to my mouth and quickly withdraw it again.

  'I'm going to the rest room,' mumbled Maggie and she hurried out of the hall.

  The music started again and I made my way to the dance floor with Tom and Tess. This time I didn't join in.

  'I have to go to the loo,' I said. 'You guys begin.'

  'What's IVF?' Tess insisted.

  'It's fertility treatment to help you have babies,' I said.

  I slipped out of the room, noticing from the corner of my eye that Hal was drinking and shouting as he chatted to Ivor. He didn't seem to notice me leaving. I rushed towards the toilets, feeling the thick carpets sink under me. I opened the door of the women's loo and slipped in. Three furious women glared at me.

  'Sorry, wrong place,' I murmured, swiftly glancing at the cubicles and then withdrawing. I waited, but Maggie didn't come out. So I ran towards the reception room, up the hall to the lifts, but still couldn't find her. She must have escaped to their room. At the entrance of the dance hall I bumped into Hal.

  His eyes were glazed and he swayed a bit.

  'You OK?' I asked. 'You better see if Maggie's all right.'

  He half lent towards me, but said nothing and made his way to the lift.

  Back in the dance hall, I went to sit with Ivor again. He was looking at Hal's business card.

  'Mergers and acquisitions guy. Bank Janderson,' said Ivor. 'Could be a good contact. He's quite knowledgeable about the mining business.'

  I looked at the big white card and saw the name, 'Harold Humford'. Ivor put the card into his front pocket.

  'He's pathetic!' I said angrily. I was still in love with Maggie, even though I knew that she was unattainable.

  'Wasn't terribly discreet for a banker, was he?' said Ivor. 'That's what booze can do.'

  Sets were forming on the dance floor again and this time, Tess and Tom pulled both Ivor and I onto the crowded floor. The tempo was fast, the band and laughter loud. Maggie and Hal were leaving tomorrow. As I danced thoughts kept whirling in my head. Maggie married? Would I ever see her again?

  * * *

  The next week we toured the Highlands and the West coast of Scotland. A few days later we were in Edinburgh for the annual summer festival. We watched the Military Tattoo within the grounds of Edinburgh Castle. It was a full moon. Scottish bands marched up and down blowing their bagpipes. Military bands from the West Indies, Australia and the US marched in different formations. The show continued and as the summer evening drew to a close, the castle lights went on and cannons boomed in a glorious finale. The thick crowd slowly shuffled towards the exits and down a cobbled narrow road towards the 'Royal Mile' and the City below.

  During the next few days we saw lots of plays and shows. Big crowds watched musicians, comedians, acrobats and jugglers in the Royal Mile, the street that runs from Edinburgh Castle down to Holyrood Palace. Some sat high up on saddles of one wheel cycles and juggled balls and flaming torches. Actors pushed their way through the audiences and passed around leaflets advertising their shows.

  The day before we left, Ivor put on his light linen suit to meet a business contact. We walked from the hotel to the Edinburgh International Book Festival. It was in the garden of Charlotte Square, which is surrounded by grey, stone, terraced town houses built about two hundred years ago.

  'Fund managers control billions in those buildings,' said Ivor who was off to a meeting with one of them.

  The twins and I wandered into tents in the garden where authors were signing books and giving talks. A bookshop was in one of the tents and we were buying some books when my mobile rang. Ivor wanted me to meet him at the offices of Hastings & Murray, 15 Charlotte Square.

  * * *

  The Charlotte Square offices of Hastings & Murray were in a modest house at the corner of one of the terraces. Inside, thick beige carpets seemed to make the place soundproof. The twins sat down and read their new books and a receptionist took me through a narrow passageway into a small room. Ivor and the fund manager were chatting and sipping whisky.

  'This is the boy,' said Ivor. 'It might be beginners luck, but he seems to have a feel for the market.'

  The money manager rose. He was medium height and stocky with a small beard.

  'Rob Hastings,' he said.

  'Jack Miner,' I replied as he squeezed my hand tightly.

  'I gather you've been doing well in the market, Jack,' said Hastings in a thick Scottish accent. He was studying me closely and I felt a bit uncomfortable.

  'Tell him what you've bought Jack . . . It won't harm you if he knows.'

  I had been having such a good holiday that I hadn't even thought about the market.

  A computer terminal was on a table nearby.

  'Can I take a look?' I asked.

  'Sure,' replied Hastings.

  I scrolled down the screen and glanced at the prices of my shares.

  'They're going mad!' I cried.

  'It's some boom isn't it?' smiled Ivor.

  It sure was. Before I had left for Scotland, I had taken £1000 to pay for my holiday and had invested the remaining £49,000 that Stan had given me in bank shares. My gold shares had more than doubled and the bank shares were up about 30 per cent.

  I looked at charts of my shares on the screen.

  'Can I print off these charts?' I asked.

  'Anything else?' asked Hastings.

  'I don't have my share price stats with me. I need them.'

  Hastings smiled, walked over to the computer, asked for the names of my shares and worked the keyboard. Charts and prices were soon running off the printer.

  'Wow! Thanks,' I said. 'Do you mind if I look at these for a bit?'

  'If it doesn't take too long,' said Hastings.

  I sat down at the table grabbed some paper and quickly drew my aquarium. My gold fish were jumping out of the water. I drew my black bank fish. They had broken into the second level of the tank.

  'Can I call Wardle to sell my gold shares?' I asked turning to Ivor.

  'Go ahead,' said Hastings. He called his secretary, got the number and I was soon speaking to David Drummond.

  'The gold market is going crazy,' shouted Drummond. 'Everyone's buying. You want some more?'

  'No, I want to sell.'

  'But . . . but, they could go higher!'

  'Maybe, maybe not. If you don't want to sell them, can I speak to Jim?'

  'No problem, Jack. I'll sell at best right away,' said Drummond. 'By the way Stan Slimcop is here. Do you want to speak to him?'

  'Yes please.'

  'Hi Stan, how's Leila?' I asked.

  'She's fine. Are you selling your gold shares?'

  'Yes.'

  'The market's gone mad. I've also been selling. I'll get rid of my last ones today. What about your bank shares?'

  'I'll keep them for the time being. See you in London, Stan. Thanks for the holiday. It's been great.'

  I turned to Hastings: 'Sorry for taking your time.'

  Hastings smiled: 'Thought about a career yet?'

  'Not sure, but I like the stock market,' I said.

  Hastings and Ivor grinned.

  'He's still got two more years in school and then university,' said Ivor. 'He could contact you when he finishes.'

  'About five years ago, they had a competition. A team of school girls versus fund managers,' said Hastings.

  'No doubt the girls won,' chuckled Ivor.

  'Not just once. Everytime!'

  'So you're going to sack your fund managers and replace them with school girls,' said Ivor, laughing.

  'Sounds like a good idea,' smiled Hastings. 'If Jack's interested, he could join us in London ri
ght away. It would be an interesting experiment for us.'

  'Me?'

  'It's up to you Jack. In Edinburgh we manage about £10 billion. We invest most of the money for pensions, charities and wealthy people mainly in Scotland, America and France,' Hastings said.

  'French people? Has this got something to do with the history of the Scots and the French? Back to Mary Queen of Scots?'

  'That's right. Did you learn that at school Jack?' 'No, I read about it and watched a history series on TV,' I said.

  'There you go, Ivor. This young man reads and has general knowledge. Just what we want.'

  I looked at Ivor, who was ruffling his white hair. I wasn't sure what to do.

  'It's your life, Jack. Two years more at school and then a great time at university. Do you really want to work now? You've got more than enough money.'

  Drummond phoned back. The shares were sold. I calculated quickly. Ivor was right. My bank shares and money in the bank were worth more than £100,000.

  'Think about it Jack,' said Hastings. 'We have a small hedge fund business in London. My partner, Ronald Ruffish, can teach you a lot.'

  'Hedge fund?'

  'Hedge funds trade everything that moves - shares, commodities and currencies. Anything that goes up or down.'

  He gave me his business card and a booklet about Hastings & Murray.

  * * *

  That night Ivor took us to a clown show that had come all the way from Moscow. They mimed, danced, jumped on trampolines and climbed high poles. There were eight in the show. I thought that I had seen one of them before, maybe on the Royal Mile. As the show continued and he somersaulted into the light, I felt a chill in my bones. His body seemed to be identical to the small wiry guy who had chased me on Charing Cross Bridge. But with clown makeup on, I couldn't be sure.

  At one time in the act he was a statue. We were sitting in the third row and he seemed to gaze straight at me. They were the same piercing black eyes. I would never forget them. Could it be him? I shivered and wondered whether he had recognised me. I wanted to run out of the theatre, but that would have been stupid. He would then have noticed me. In any event, I had forgotten that I was in the audience and the lights were off. He was facing spotlights and couldn't see the faces of the audience properly. The show went on and the acrobat caught bottles and knives that were thrown at him. It was as if he was made of rubber, the way he quickly somersaulted backwards and then forwards. He tied another mime artist up, climbed a high bar and hanging onto the bar with his feet, pulled the artist upwards. He then held the rope with his teeth and loosened the knot with his hands, grabbing his partner by his legs when he was about to fall on to the floor.

  'So that's how they managed to hang Yapolovitch from the bridge,' I thought to myself. I was now almost certain that the mime artist was one of the killers.

  The show came to an end and the lights came on. The audience clapped and I noticed in the front row a group of noisy and drunk Russians. They were clapping and cheering in their own language. One of them had a bottle of vodka. It was against the house rules to drink inside the theatre, but they were swigging from the bottle. The men wore smart casual clothes. They were with beautiful girls, with huge diamond earrings and massive ruby and sapphire rings.

  The actors bowed time and time again and waved to the Russians. I held up the programme in front of my face and peeped with one eye. The snake tattoo was on his right forearm. The same one I had seen when I was running away from them. It was definitely him. I read the biographies in the programme and found that the man's name was Boris Krepolovitch. He was an acrobat, clown and mime artist in Russian circuses and shows.

  We gradually made our way towards the exit and when we were outside we passed the stage door. The group of drunk Russians were there. Krepolovitch came out the door and a tall handsome Russian with thick blond hair, shook his hand. I felt sick. Krepolovitch turned towards us, but I had slipped behind Ivor, so that he couldn't see me.

  Later, we had tea and cakes at a posh hotel and the Russian group and groupies walked in with some of the mime artists. They sat around the bar and ordered champagne. I breathed a sigh of relief because Krepolovitch wasn't with them. The tall guy with blond hair, combed backwards, was the centre of attention. The others seemed to be sucking up to him.

  'Some Russians have become mega rich,' said Ivor.

  'I thought that the Russian people were poor,' I said.

  'How did these people make their money?'

  'Russia has huge natural resources. After the Soviet Union collapsed around 1990, Russia became independent. Boris Yeltsin who was then the Russian president sold stakes in oil, natural gas, aluminium and other raw materials for a song.'

  'Why?'

  'Russia had huge debts. People were poverty stricken and the government needed the money. The country off-loaded large quantities of its metals on the market and prices collapsed. Mining companies were doing badly. Yeltsin was drunk most of the time and there was a lot of corruption. To cut a long story short, a few shrewd Russians backed by Western banks and other firms, bought the mines very cheaply.'

  'And then prices recovered,' I said.

  'Yes. Within a few years Yeltsin had created billionaires, let alone millionaires,' said Ivor with a hollow laugh. 'They call those Russians, oligarchs.'

  'The guys who are buying football clubs, that sort of thing,' I said.

  'That's right. Below the oligarchs are other rich Russians who have been doing all sorts of deals. Some are criminals operating in gangs. They're the Russian mafia.'

  'Have you come across any of these people?'

  'Yes. I was a consultant on some of their gold and diamond exploration ventures. They pay well, but I would never invest in their projects. They made me feel uneasy.'

  'I know the feeling,' I said.

  'You've come across them?' asked Ivor.

  I shook my head. Stan was keeping his word. He had kept my awful secret.

  'Do you know any of these people?' I asked looking in the direction of the bar where the Russians were laughing and drinking.'

  'The tall blond guy, with girls hanging on to him, is Yevgeny Faramazov. I've seen him at mining conferences. I've never met him personally, but I've heard that he invests a lot of money in mines in Russia, Africa and South America. I'm not sure whether he's a goody or baddy.'

  There was no way I was going to tell Ivor what I thought. Here, there, everywhere, how was I to escape them. Just keep my head down, I guess. Hope that Stan was right and they would forget what I looked like. I was very glad that I was returning to London, the next day. I would be far away from Krepolovitch. The Edinburgh festival was continuing for another three weeks. Hopefully, he would remain there and then go back to Russia.

  11 - THE INCUBATOR

  I walked out of Green Park Station into the sun and fresh breeze. It was the beginning of September and after much rain in the past week, the park was lush. A sign showed that one of the paths led to Buckingham Palace, but I turned around and climbed the stairs and was on Piccadilly, a West End thoroughfare. On my right, overlooking the park, was the Ritz Hotel. I wanted to walk in and take a peek. Mum used to daydream that she would take me for tea there one day. Unfortunately, no time. I was on my way to have lunch with Ronald Ruffish, head of Hastings & Ruffish, the London division of Hastings & Murray. We would be meeting at Brown's Hotel in Albemarle Street, across the road from the Ritz.

  The weeks since the Scottish holiday had gone fast. My GCSE results were out and had amazed me. I got As for English, history, maths and IT, Bs for physics and chemistry and Cs for French and Spanish. The only blot was a D for religious studies, but that didn't bother me as I had found the subject boring and didn't revise much.

  I phoned my old friends in Bridlington and found that most of them had done OK. Jack Miner was the surprise. Results far better than expected. James Horsely, the headmaster wanted me to do my AS levels, but there was no way I was going back to Bridlington. A London school
was a possibility. Stan, Leila and Martha tried to persuade me to continue, but I decided to phone Jim Hastings in Edinburgh and he arranged a meeting with Mr Ruffish. They were serious about offering me a job.

  I flopped down in one of the leather armchairs of Brown's, a posh, discreet 19th century Georgian hotel and glanced at the brochure. Rudyard Kipling wrote "Jungle Book" while he stayed there and Winston Churchill was a visitor. If only Mum and Dad could have seen me. Yorkshire boy, in my fancy dark blue suit, opposite some rich, maybe famous people, who were chatting on a huge pink sofa.

  I felt relaxed. If Ruffish didn't like me, or I decided not to take the job, I could still finish school and go to university. There was nothing to lose. Ruffish walked into the hotel. I recognised him from his picture in the Hastings & Murray information pack. He stooped slightly, but I think he was only mid-fifties. I could see that he was wearing a toupee. I had expected Ruffish to be in an expensive suit. That is what city guys were supposed to wear. Instead he had a brown suede jacket over an open neck shirt. I stood up and he walked towards me with a slight limp. His skin was sallow and he had tired, kindly, sunken brown eyes.

  'Ron Ruffish,' he said, shaking my hand. 'Sorry I'm late. Let's have something to eat.'

  We went into a large half empty dining room and sat down at a table in the corner.

  After ordering some soft drinks, and talking a bit about school, Ruffish got to the point quickly.

  'Rob Hastings told me that you turned ten thousand into a hundred in only three months!'

  'It wasn't all my money, Mr Ruffish,' I said. 'A friend followed my trades and gave me a cut of his profits.'

  'That's against market regulations! You have to be a registered advisor.'

  'No, no! I didn't ask him for anything, Mr Ruffish. He gave it to me after he made a killing in gold shares.'

  'Do you think he'll back you again?'

  'Dunno. I told him that I bought bank shares.'

  'Completely different businesses. Why did you choose them?'