‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Rocq.’
‘I shink I have had a bit — er — shoo mug ter drink.’
‘Doesn’t do any harm now and again, sir.’
‘Schno — sure you’re right.’
21
The offices of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt were at 124 Lower Thames Street, about 400 yards from 88 Mincing Lane. Behind the brilliantly polished, but bullet-proof, windows of the Adam-designed house were the offices from which Eisenbar-Goldschmidt conducted its £400 million reinsurance business with Lloyds, reimbursing the companies within Lloyds’ hallowed halls on claims on which they had to stump up, ranging from house burglaries, car crashes, skiing accidents, burned out warehouses, shipwrecks, aeroplane disasters, village fetes wiped out through rain, wrong organs removed by surgeons, and a million other items.
The offices looked much like any other city offices. Being in an old house, they were tastefully furnished with plenty of period furniture, some genuine, some reproduction; Victorian prints in simple frames adorned the walls, interspersed with photographs of Concorde, a supertanker, several factories, two high-rise buildings, and Manchester United football club. Part of the reinsurance on all of these was covered by Eisenbar-Goldschmidt.
E-G had offices in many of the world’s capital cities; the controlling shareholder in the firm, although not a widely publicized fact, was the Israeli government. In London, as elsewhere, unknown to most of the staff, the building was also used by Mossad agents as a safe-house.
In a sound-proofed basement office, at nine o’clock Wednesday morning, Daniel Baenhaker picked up the receiver of the direct telephone line to the switchboard of the Mossad, at its Tel Aviv headquarters, the moment it rang.
‘Good morning,’ came Ephraim’s voice through the earpiece.
‘Good morning,’ replied Baenhaker.
‘Still in one piece? Nothing fallen off you since we spoke?’
‘I’m in one piece.’
‘Good. Have you heard of a French company called Lasserre Industriel?’
‘Armaments manufacturers? Also make aircraft?’
‘Correct. Their chairman is a Viscomte Lasserre.’
‘I’ve heard of him, too.’
‘Have you heard of a Greek arms dealer, name of Jimmy Culundis?’
‘Didn’t he supply anti-tank guns to the Egyptians during the Six-Day War?’
‘And just about everything else that they couldn’t get.’
‘I’ve heard it rumoured that in the event of war between the US and Russia, they’d both be buying their spare parts and ammunition from him.’
‘You have the right man,’ said Ephraim.
‘I was assigned once to follow him when he came to England — for a suspected meeting with Hassan of Jordan during Hassan’s official visit here — but it turned out to be Jimmy Mancham, the ex-president of the Seychelles. It was shortly before that bungled coup in the Seychelles in 1981 with Mad Mike Hoare.’
‘Right. Culundis and Lasserre are good friends — no doubt Culundis gets much of his hardware from Lasserre. On Monday evening they had dinner together at Lasserre’s chateau in Bordeaux and were joined by a Jewish gentleman, Sir Monty Elleck. Elleck is chairman and chief executive of a company called Globalex — a very large, privately-owned City of London commodity broking firm. It has branches in several cities around the world. I need to know very badly why they had dinner together, and what their connection is.’
‘Are Lasserre and Culundis clients of Globalex?’
‘That’s one of the things you’ll have to find out. Brokerage is a very private business. But it is important to establish whether they are clients. What I am particularly interested in finding out is whether there is any current connection between these men and a country situated within the United Arab Emirates — although it is independent — called Umm Al Amnah. We know there have in the past been dealings between Jimmy Culundis and Amnah. His company is known to have supplied the armaments to Amnah in the past, and I received a report from the CIA/MI6 World Airport Surveillance that Culundis flew in his private DC-8 into Orly airport on Sunday, directly from Tunquit — Amnah’s only airport.’
‘The English are very private when they talk about money,’ said Baenhaker. ‘Getting information may be extremely difficult.’
‘Globalex is a Jewish firm. The Chairman, Sir Monty Elleck, is an ardent Zionist and has given Israel many millions of pounds over the years; remember that.’
‘Could be helpful. How quickly do you want this information?’
‘Friday.’
‘What? It’s Wednesday now.’
‘I know. There is very little time. You can do whatever you want to get this information — anything at all you do will have our full support. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Then please telephone me on Friday evening; I shall be in my office until eight o’clock your time.’
‘Yes, Sir. Goodbye.’
Baenhaker hung up. and then sat back in his chair. He looked at his watch. It was five past nine, Wednesday. He buzzed on the intercom up to Eisenbar-Goldschmidt’s research department, and asked for all the information they had on Globalex to be brought down to him, then he sat back to think. Globalex was Jewish, so, as a Jew himself, people might be fairly open with him. But he knew British financial institutions: in time, over a hundred alcoholic lunches, you could pry anything you wanted from pretty well anyone — except the Jews. Many of them did not drink, and of those who did, most drank little. They respected the privacy of their clients far more than the British did. But even if there were gentiles in Globalex, willing to drink and then confide all, it would take time, and he did not have time.
To have any chance of getting information legitimately, he needed a lure. The only lure he could think of was money. To a large brokerage house he knew it would require a lot of money to make them interested in talking to him, and an even greater amount still for them to start wooing him for it. But the promise of money could get him in through the door, into the lion’s den, and with no suspicion.
When the report arrived he scanned down first to find Globalex’s daily trading figures: their average weekly turnover in commodity value was a shade over £75 million. He did a quick sum in his head: their brokerage income would have been around £50,000 per week. He was going to have to talk big to impress these fellows; very big. He looked up Globalex in the phone book, lifted the receiver and dialled the telephone number.
‘Good morning, Globalex’, said a bright voice.
‘Good morning. We are interested in opening an account with Globalex to invest funds for us.’
‘Metals or soft commodities?’ said the voice.
Baenhaker paused, flustered; he wasn’t sure what soft commodities were. ‘Er — metals,’ he said, boldly.
‘One moment, I’ll put you through to metals reception.’
There were two sharp burrs, then another female voice: ‘Globalex Metals.’
‘Good morning. My company is interested in opening an account with Globalex to invest funds for us in metals.’
‘Would you like to make an appointment to come and see us — or would you like someone to come and see you?’
‘I’d like to come to you.’
‘Certainly, sir. When would be convenient?’
‘Would this morning be possible?’
‘I think so, I’ll just check for you.’ There was a short pause. ‘Would eleven o’clock be convenient?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘What name is it, please?’
‘David Bernstein, of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt.’
‘Very good, Mr Bernstein, we will look forward to seeing you at eleven o’clock.’
Baenhaker replaced the receiver and looked down at his battered clothes: he was wearing an open-neck shirt, slacks and cream lace-up canvas shoes. Not the stuff of which investment managers, to which status he had now elevated himself, were made.