After having narrowly escaped being kidnapped on his way to the office a few years previously, Barbiero-Ruche now worked at home. ‘Barbiero-Ruche,’ the Italian’s deep voice boomed down the phone within moments of the ringing tone starting.
‘Theo — it’s Rocky.’
‘Ah, you bastard,’ said the Italian. ‘I’m not too happy with you, not too happy at all.’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘That damn girl you fixed me up with — Dingly — Dunky — what’s her name?’
‘Deidre.’
‘Yeah, Deidre. She gave me a present.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘You know what the present was?’
‘No, what?’
‘The clap.’ There was a long silence. ‘It’s not funny, Rocky.’
‘I wasn’t laughing.’
‘You weren’t laughing? You were laughing yourself stupid.’
‘I wasn’t, Theo — it must have been interference on the line.’
‘Interference — I’ll give you interference. You know how many broads I got lined up right now? I never had so many damned broads lined up — and what I got to tell them? Sorry, babies, Theo can’t see you right now because he went to England and got the clap from a dog?’
‘You don’t have to screw them, Theo; girls like being taken out — you know — theatre, opera, nice dinner then drop them home. Try being romantic — you might find you enjoy it.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ grunted the Italian. ‘Anyhow — what the hell you call for? No one left to talk to in England? All your damn clients in bed with terminal venereals?’
‘Superwop — just shut your face a moment and let me get a word in edgeways. I’m sorry about your problems — take the tablets and they’ll get better. I’ve got problems of my own right now, all thanks to your damned advice.’
‘What problems you got, Rocky?’
Rocq looked cautiously around him to see if anyone was listening to him. They weren’t. Mozer and Slivitz were both engaged in shouting matches with clients who appeared to be on the other side of the world and stone deaf.
‘Coffee.’
The Italian emitted a low moaning that sounded like a bad attack of indigestion. ‘You too. How bad?’
‘Bad.’
‘Got to take the rough with the smooth, Rocky. I got the clap, you got the coffee.’
‘Want to swap?’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘What do you reckon it’s going to do?’
‘I hear the World Health Organization’s got a lot of hard evidence. It’s going to drop some more — whole lot more when that news breaks.’
‘When is it going to break?’
‘Couple of days, maybe. Week or two at the most.’
‘How much is it going to drop?’
‘Fifty for sure. Maybe one hundred. Could even go one hundred and fifty. It depends.’
‘So you’d advise going short?’
‘For sure, Rocky; you must go short.’
‘What price do you have on coffee at the moment?’
‘Four hundred and twenty-seven pounds sterling, September. You want the dollar price?’
‘Sterling’s fine. Okay, Theo, I want you to sell some coffee short for me.’ Rocq paused, and did some sums on his calculator. ‘Twelve thousand tons,’ he said, finally.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Barbiero-Ruche. ‘I’d have trouble selling 2,000, let alone 12,000.’ He paused. ‘I’ll call you back, Rocky — after I’ve rung The Producers Pact. They’re trying to support the market. Someone there owes me a favour.’ He rung off.
Five minutes later he was on the line again. ‘Okay, Rocky. 12,000 tons. It’ll be crossed on the market tomorrow. I’m going to have to ask you for margin, Rocky — too much for me to carry on my own.’
‘No problem, Theo,’ Rocq lied.
‘I’m going to need £512,000. Okay?’
‘Sure — I’ll tell my bank to send you a telegraphic transfer — soon as I get your confirmation.’
‘You’ll get that tomorrow.’
‘Okay — soon as I receive it, you’ll get your margin. Keep taking the tablets, fat man.’
‘Ciao.’
‘Ciao.’ Rocq replaced the receiver and breathed a sigh. He had a chance now. Somehow, he would have to fool Barbiero-Ruche into believing that the £512,000 margin was on its way. The Italian reckoned that coffee would drop within the week. If he could spin the Italian along until then, he could be out of the woods. Communications with Italy and internally in Italy were dreadful. Cables and telexes did frequently go astray. He just hoped that Barbiero-Ruche would keep that sell order for him and not liquidate it. He was going to have to rely on a mixture of their good friendship and bad communications.
He went and got himself a coffee and returned to his desk.
‘Was that your lunch hour — or did you have your dinner early?’ said Mozer sarcastically, leaning over to him.
‘No — I’ve been out trying to buy a deodorant strong enough for your breath.’
Mozer shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Alex: my breath may not be so fresh, but my work record smells a damned sight better than yours.’
‘Go back to your cave, Henry.’
They were interrupted by a clerk bringing a telex and placing it on Rocq’s desk. He stared at it, and all his anxieties came flooding back.
It was a confirmation from Theo Barbiero-Ruche, of his instructions to sell 12,000 tons of coffee at £427 in September. From tomorrow he would be legally bound to sell that coffee at that price. Five million and one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds. If coffee dropped, by at least £50, he would be fine — and if it dropped even more, he stood to make a substantial profit. If it rose, however, he would be adding a mighty further amount to his slate. He would have no option but to declare himself bankrupt. He re-read the confirmation once more. It didn’t make him feel any better.
19
Jean-Luc Menton awoke with a start, sweating heavily, to a noise that sounded like a dog being sick — except that he didn’t have a dog. As his brain focussed on reality, he knew without opening his eyes that the noise was from his girlfriend, Valerie, who always slept on her stomach, and half-suffocated against the pillow.
He slid his hand out and picked up his Casio digital watch.
‘Merde,’ he informed himself. He put the watch back, picked up a pack of Gauloises, shook a cigarette out, put it into his mouth, lit it with his Bic lighter and inhaled deeply. Then, with the cigarette still in his mouth, he jumped out of bed, and began pulling on his clothes.
The grunting gagging noises stopped and were replaced by Valerie’s deep voice. ‘Quelle heure est-il?’
‘Dix heures et demi.’
He ran into the bathroom, put the cigarette in the soap tray, chucked some cold water on his face, dried it, then replaced the cigarette. He pulled on his jacket, picked up a couple of packets of chewing gum from the sidetable, mumbled ‘Au revoir, à toute à l’heure,’ and dashed out of the apartment.
Menton knew that the Viscomte did not like to be kept waiting, and he was already an hour late, with a thirty-minute drive ahead of him. As he walked down the stairs, he thought back hard on the interview he had had with the Israeli, General Ephraim, on the beach at La Baule. He had no doubt that Viscomte Lasserre would require a very detailed account of Ephraim’s reaction.