He buzzed on the intercom to the investment manager, Gary Volendam, to ask him to come down.
One hour and a quarter later, Baenhaker was standing in Austin Reed’s, in a lightweight navy double-breasted suit that could have been made to measure for him. He added a white shirt, conservative blue-and-white polka dot tie and black slip-on loafers with small gold chains across the insteps. He left, feeling decidedly New York preppie.
For some minutes, as he walked, he looked decidedly strange, for every other step, he scraped either the sole or the side of one shoe or the other along the pavement. He was in fact trying to scuff them so that by the time he arrived at Globalex they wouldn’t look too new.
He arrived at the front door of 88 Mincing Lane at exactly eleven o’clock. ‘Good morning, Sir, may I help you?’
The burly figure of Sergeant Major Bantry, in his full Globalex dress regalia, blocked Baenhaker’s path.
‘I have an appointment with the metals section of Globalex at eleven o’clock,’ said Baenhaker.
Bantry ran his eyes, like stiff pointed fingers, down the full length of Baenhaker’s body; they stopped on his shoes. ‘Can’t be much,’ thought Bantry to himself, ‘if he can’t even afford a tin of shoe polish. ‘Very good, Sir,’ he said, standing aside. ‘Nice day, could be rain later.’
‘Yes,’ said Baenhaker, ‘I’m sure.’
‘Reception is straight down there, Sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Baenhaker, entering the building.
22
‘I got it, I got it, I got it!’ Gary Slivitz yelled out excitedly.
‘For chrissake, shut up,’ said Rocq, ‘I’ve got the most blistering hangover, and I’m fed up hearing you shout every five minutes “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”’
‘Well, I have this time — look — look!’ He excitedly held the Rubik’s cube under Rocq’s nose. The whites were all together on one face, the greens all together on another face. He turned it over to show Rocq the oranges were all together, as were the yellows. But then Slivitz noticed there was one red cube in the blue section, and one blue one in the red section. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said.
‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ said Rocq.
‘Look, Rocky — did you ever see it so close?’
‘Slivitz, why don’t you get yourself up to date? Rubik’s cubes went out with the ark.’
‘All I’ve got to do is this — look — like this!’ Slivitz twirled the cube excitedly in his hand; there was a sudden sharp snap and the cube fell apart, showering multi-coloured blocks across his desk and onto the floor. ‘Oh, shit!’ he shouted, at the top of his voice, ‘Oh, shit!’
Rocq’s intercom buzzed. ‘Yes?’
It was the receptionist: ‘Your eleven o’clock appointment is here. Will you see him in an interview room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Room 4 is free.’
‘Okay — I’ll be right out.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve got another big one,’ he said, rubbing it into Slivitz’s misery as he scrabbled underneath his chair to pick up the pieces.
‘It’s probably some one-legged old bat who’s just won five hundred quid on the Bingo, and wants you to make her fortune for her.’
‘No, Slivitz — those are all reserved for you.’
Rocq walked out of the office. There was a rotation system among the brokers for handling new accounts: if a new client did not specify the broker he or she required, then it went around in turn. Rocq had tipped the balance more than slightly in his favour, by tipping the receptionist with some delicate trinket from Asprey’s or Garrard’s for each decent account he landed. If she ever passed him one-legged widows, it was only because they were very, very rich.
He walked through into the fourth-floor reception, with his standard smile firmly on his face, and marched straight up to Baenhaker, briefly studied his pock-marked face, thin dark hair, smart blue suit with dandruff on the shoulders, garish tie and scuffed shoes. He noticed a scar above Baenhaker’s right eye. He summed him up right away as someone who thought he was a whizz-kid, but probably didn’t have the authority in his company to go to the bathroom without permission.
‘Good morning, Mr Bernstein. I’m Alex Rocq.’
‘How do you do, Mr Rocq.’
‘Come this way.’
Rocq led him into a small, functional office, overlooking Mincing Lane. Vertical blinds kept out the brightest of the June sun’s rays, and the air-conditioning kept out the heat. In spite of his hangover, Rocq was feeling tired, but very happy. He’d called Motortune at nine that morning, and discovered they had a 911 Turbo Porsche almost identical to his previous one, in stock as a result of a cancelled order. The banker’s draft from Globalex was in his wallet and he was going to collect the car at lunchtime. He had got up early, and before leaving home had put telephone calls through to Milan, to Theo Barbiero-Ruche, to Umm Al Amnah, to Sheik Missh, and to several other members of his ‘A’ team.
The interview room was designed to make clients feel at ease. At one end was a pair of two-seat chesterfields, facing each other, where they could sit and talk relaxedly. At the other end was a flat mahogany table, with two pairs of reproduction Queen Anne dining chairs facing each other. The idea was that business should be negotiated over the table, then sealed over a drink in the chesterfields.
They sat at the table. ‘How can we be of help to you?’ asked Rocq.
‘We want to expand our investment portfolio in this country. So far we are only in blue chips. We feel now it is time to — er — play with a little racing money. We are looking for a firm with whom we can work, and one we can trust. We are a Jewish firm, so are you. We are interested in metals — you are among the leading metal brokers. It is natural to start here.’
Rocq nodded.
‘We require, first, a great deal of information about your company. We are very choosey about whom we do business with — although we are sure your credentials will be in order.’ Baenhaker managed a weak smile.
‘I am sure you will find so,’ said Rocq. ‘May I first ask you the size of the investment you are intending?’
‘We have approximately £40 million sterling allocated for this at the present time. I trust that will be sufficient to open an account?’
‘Yes,’ said Rocq, after a short pause for air. ‘Quite sufficient.’ Normally, the cash register in his brain would have begun totting up his potential earnings from commissions from an account of such a size. But there was something about this man, Bernstein, that didn’t quite add up to Rocq. Rocq was no stranger to people discussing sums of money the size of telephone numbers, and he had long since been able to determine when someone was genuine and when someone, as he put it, was bullshitting. He was already convinced that the man across the table was a time-wasting bullshitter; but he had no option but to hear him out.
‘The first thing that I would need from you is a full client list.’
‘That is quite impossible — we never divulge our clients.’
Baenhaker stared across the table at Rocq. Rocq was in a double-breasted Lanvin blazer, a blue-striped shirt with white collar, plain navy silk tie, elegant grey trousers, and polished black loafers with the much-copied green-and-red Gucci colour-band across the instep. Baenhaker wasn’t an expert on Gucci shoes, but he knew these were not a copy. When he had stepped out of Austin Reed’s this morning, Rocq was the sort of person he had hoped he looked like: genuine preppy. He studied Rocq’s face: it was good-looking, slightly boyish, emphasized by his slightly long, schoolboy-style black hair which continually slipped down onto his forehead. He had quick blue eyes, a short, straight nose and a slightly arrogant mouth. His well-cut blazer hung from his shoulders correctly, as did his collar sit round his neck correctly, as was his tie equally correctly knotted. He looked exactly how a successful young man ought to look. He was everything Baenhaker hated, because he was everything Baenhaker wanted to be and never was. What aggravated Baenhaker further was that he knew Rocq had the measure of him. He was aware that he had an uphill struggle ahead. He paused for some moments and then spoke.