‘Does such information interest you?’
‘Of course it does, Sir Monty.’
‘I thought it might. You are familiar with the name Umm Al Amnah?’
‘Very much so.’
‘You have a very good client from there — Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘His father has recently abdicated, and he has now become the ruler of Amnah.’
‘Yes — that’s right — he is the new Emir of Amnah. Hasn’t done us a lot of good so far — I think he has become too embroiled in his ruling to think much about his metal investing. I do have a £5 million discretionary account for him, but the really large punting he does he likes to instruct directly.’
‘Well — this scheme, in any event, involves not him but his country. In a nutshell, two gentlemen, with whom I am acquainted, have secretly been providing the new Emir Missh with troops and secret police to help him against mounting opposition to his family. Unknown to Missh, at the same time, they have been building a stockpile of nuclear mines in Al Suttoh, the country’s port, on the Persian Gulf. One of these gentlemen has recently added a small fleet of oil tankers to his assets. On a given day, in just over one week’s time, one of these tankers, on its way up the Gulf, will be blown to smithereens by a small atomic explosive. There will be nothing left of it but matchsticks. The crew will all have been taken off earlier, secretly, by helicopter, so there will be no casualties.
‘After the detonation, an announcement will be put out from the Palace of Amnah that the country has placed 400 nuclear mines in the Strait of Hormuz, at the mouth of the Gulf. Unless Israel withdraws completely from all occupied territories and frees all Arab prisoners in its jails, then they will not render the mines safe. Effectively, no shipping will be able to get in or out of the Gulf. Over half the world’s oil supply will be stopped.’ Elleck did a gentle karate chop with the side of his right hand, about halfway up his left arm. ‘There will not have been a crisis like it since Suez,’ said Elleck, almost gleefully. He stood up, and went and refilled Rocq’s glass.
Rocq nodded. ‘Very clever. No one would ever have suspected that a tin-pot country like Amnah could have so much clout.’
‘Precisely,’ said Elleck. ‘So the shock will be all the more severe. Roping Libya in adds clout to the menace, because everyone knows that right now Libya doesn’t move an inch without full Russian approval.’ He sat back and took a pull of his drink. ‘You’re an intelligent fellow, Alex — what do you think the result of all this will be?’
‘I don’t know politically — but the price of gold will go through the roof.’
‘Good boy,’ said Elleck. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot in one.’
‘Does Missh know about all this?’
‘Not a thing. And he won’t. Even if he were to find out, he’s got no option but to keep his trap shut. Because of the delicate political situation in the United Arab Emirates, there isn’t a Western country who will dare support him. Russia and Libya and the other anti-West Arab states have been courting him like mad, but both Missh and his father are fundamentally pro-West. Libya and Russia did help them originally gain independence, but since then they have been busy shaking off these countries. I think they are hoping that one day a reconciliation with the West can be made — although of course the Russian propaganda machine has always played up the original bond between Amnah and Libya, and continues to do so at every opportunity.’
Rocq nodded. ‘So you want me to start buying gold for all my clients as fast as I can go?’
‘No,’ said Elleck, ‘that is precisely what I do not want you to do. Gold is at the moment depressed — today’s price is $494 an ounce. I want the price to stay as low as possible. I have a syndicate comprising the key people behind this whole business in Amnah. Between them, they have committed to the syndicate sufficient funds to buy £1,000 million worth of gold.’
Rocq whistled.
‘Buying that amount of gold in one place, in any one day, would be enough to push the price up $10 to $20; but we don’t want to do that. We want to keep it very, very quiet. During the next week I want you to buy that billion pounds worth, but I want you to spread your buying as much around the world as you possibly can. Don’t buy more than a few bars in any one market, from any one dealer. And don’t start until Monday morning of next week — between now and then I’m going to quietly buy a few ounces for myself.’
‘Now in return for doing this, and for keeping your silence, the syndicate will pay you a commission rate of .05 per cent on all the gold you buy, and .05 per cent when you sell. On £1,000 million, your commission when you buy will come to £500,000. When you sell, hopefully gold will have risen from four twenty to six hundred, maybe higher. That £1,000 million will have risen about thirty per cent — to say £1,350 million; .05 per cent of that will be £675,000 — giving you a total of £1,175,000 — enough to clear your debts, and give you £100,000 on top. Does that sound reasonable?’ Rocq nodded his head; it sounded reasonable enough. Anything, right now, would have sounded reasonable enough.
‘The name of the syndicate,’ said Elleck, ‘is “Goldilocks.” An account has been opened for the syndicate here at Globalex, under the name “Goldilocks.”’
‘Someone has a sense of humour,’ said Rocq.
Elleck raised his glass. ‘To your good health.’
Rocq raised his. ‘To Goldilocks. But not the three bears — let’s hope for three bulls.’
‘Goldilocks and the three bulls,’ said Sir Monty Elleck.
It was 7.00 when Rocq staggered out of the elevator into the lobby of 88 Mincing Lane. He was aware that he was completely plastered; he was also aware that he had promised to collect Amanda at 6.00 sharp from her office to go to a preview at the Mayor Gallery in Cork Street. A taxi came down Mincing Lane with its ‘For Hire’ sign illuminated. Rocq put up his hand. The taxi slowed and stopped, and Rocq staggered towards it; he put a hand on the bonnet to steady himself, then leaned in through the front window. ‘I want to — shgo — er — I shwant to shgo — er — schback of Harrods.’
‘I’m not taking you in that state, mate — clear off.’ The taxi accelerated down the street, leaving Rocq in a cloud of black diesel fumes.
‘Fucking bastard,’ he yelled, squinting hard to focus. He went and sat down on the doorstep of 88. A wave hit him, and he wasn’t sure whether it was nausea or tiredness. His head was swimming and he felt he was about to pass out; he pushed his eyelids hard together, just leaving a tiny gap; in that manner, he found he could focus and see what traffic was coming down the street. Somewhere, deep inside his drink-riddled body, he felt a good feeling surging up; it had seemed a long time since he had felt good, and he was enjoying the feeling. He had sunk, and he had hit rock bottom. Now he was on the way up.
Somewhere, alongside the good feeling, something else was hatching deep inside him. He knew he wasn’t in any fit state to figure out the finer details right now, but the germ of an idea was there and he knew, instinctively, that the idea was good. He looked forward to sobering up, and to thinking about it more clearly.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Rocq looked up from the doorstep at the uniformed Retired Sergeant-Major ‘Sarge’ Bantry, Globalex’s live-in security guard and night-watchman.
‘Shevenig Sssharge.’
‘You’re going to need a banjo and collection box if you stay there much longer, sir.’
‘Shink I’m going to need one anyway.’
‘Think a good night’s sleep will do yer no harm,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll get you a cab.’
‘Shank you Sarge.’