The journalist who wrote the ten-column article concluded with the words:
It is inevitable for a man who profits by violence, in the way Culundis has throughout his career, that one day, one of his dealings must come home to roost: For Jimmy Culundis, under a blazing dawn sky on a perfect Greek morning, that day was today. Culundis leaves a wife and three children.
Elleck sat back in his chair, and began to think hard. A moment later, his intercom buzzed. It was his secretary, and she sounded strange.
‘Sir Monty — I have Viscomte Lasserre’s personal secretary on the line now — would you like to speak to her?’
‘Er — isn’t he there?’
‘I think you’d better speak to her.’
‘Put her on.’
There was a click, and then a voice in broken English: ‘Allo? Sir Montay Hellix?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘I ’ave to tell you bad news. The Viscomte Lasserre was killed in an aeroplane accident last night.’
‘Viscomte Lasserre?’
‘I am afraid so — yes, sir — he—’ she broke down and began sobbing. After a few moments she stopped. ‘I can’t talk more now. I am sorry; I am so sorry.’ The line went dead.
Elleck stared blankly into the receiver for a few moments, then replaced it. He began to pick his fingernails, violently. He felt numb. For ten minutes he sat, staring blankly across his office, trying to focus his mind on what had happened.
The £1,000 million of gold that Rocq had bought on the syndicate’s behalf today — Globalex had guaranteed the payment of the entire amount. His arrangement with Lasserre and Culundis was that they would transfer the funds to his bank each day, as the gold was bought. As he hadn’t bought until today, he had not required the funds. The purpose of his telephone call to Lasserre had been to ask Lasserre for immediate payment of the £100 million of margin. There was nothing in writing, nothing at all; he had never had anything in writing with Lasserre — everything was always done verbally. Globalex was now on the hook for £1,000 million worth of gold, which it had bought at the top of the market. With the drop of $5 an ounce at the close of play it meant, on the 840,000 ounces they had bought today, they were down over £2 million already.
His brain raced; he had a chill fear run through him as he wondered if the two deaths were connected. The coincidence was too great, he decided, for them not to be. Was it the syndicate someone was wiping out, or were they killed because of some other business dealing? He thought with an even deeper chill about the break-in, the murder of Sarge, and suddenly he did not want to be alone in the building; he pressed the intercom. ‘Jane — would you mind staying on for a bit longer? I — er — I may have a few urgent letters to give you.’
‘Well — I can stay another half hour, Sir Monty — we have to go to a dinner tonight, and the 6.10 is really the latest train I can catch.’
‘Okay, fine. Can you get Rocq, please. I need him up here immediately.’ With Lasserre and Culundis dead, he had no idea whether the plan would still go ahead or not. Perhaps they had set it into irreversible motion? Perhaps their deaths were intended to stop it?
He couldn’t risk it: £1,000 million of gold was a lot of money to be on the hook for, a damned lot, by anyone’s standards.
Elleck did some calculations in his head: he had cash reserves on short-term deposits of £40 million, specifically for covering particularly good clients whom the company did not want to bother with small margin calls. He had another fifty million on one-year term deposits, and a further forty million in stocks, shares and commodities. The Globalex building was worth about three million. At a pinch, he could rustle up £140 million. If gold dropped twenty per cent, he would have to fork out £200 million; he didn’t have £200 million. His legs began to tremble. It was impossible he thought, impossible; he could never have allowed such a thing to happen. But he had allowed it. He had actually allowed himself to get into a position whereby he could go to the wall.
The intercom buzzed and he pushed the button: ‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Rocq left about twenty-five minutes ago, Sir Monty.’
‘Damn. Try his home.’
‘I just did, Sir Monty — no answer.’
‘Keep trying it every five minutes. Do you have any idea where he might have been going?’
‘No, Sir Monty, and there’s no one to ask in his office — they have all left for the day.’
‘Okay — well, keep trying his home.’ He let go of the switch. He wanted to sell the entire thousand million pounds-worth of gold now. Take the two million loss, that was okay. He could not take the risk of the plan not coming off and, with the two principals dead, it seemed to him pretty unlikely that the plan could come off. He had to get hold of Rocq, because he had no idea where Rocq had done the buying. He had bought in bits and pieces all over the world, including the Swiss company and numbered accounts. ‘What a mess,’ he said to himself. ‘What a bloody mess.’
31
It had been a long time since Baenhaker could remember a bollocking as severe as the one he had received from General Ephraim on the Monday afternoon, when Ephraim had telephoned him at Eisenbar-Goldschmidt. It was Wednesday morning, and he was still smarting under the General’s torrent of abuse.
Switzerland had never been particularly helpful towards the Mossad at the best of times: Israel had been doing its best for some years to woo the Swiss, and their efforts had been beginning to pay off. ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to, trying to get your killing done for you, and in Switzerland of all places?’ Ephraim had shouted.
Baenhaker knew what he’d done, and he tried to explain it to Ephraim: that he hadn’t wanted to bring the full weight of Scotland Yard crashing down upon them by having killed three people from the same company within a week. Ephraim’s anger was all the more fuelled by the fact that he had given his instructions on Friday, expressed the urgency of the situation, and it was now Monday. Apart from losing two of his top Swiss agents and having the wrath of the Swiss government brought down upon his head, nothing had been achieved. The threat to relieve Baenhaker from the assignment and instruct another agent to do the job had hit Baenhaker hardest of anything.
‘It’s Monday afternoon, General,’ Baenhaker had said. ‘By Wednesday night, they will both be dead, I promise you.’
‘They had better be,’ replied Ephraim.
Baenhaker had not had an altogether happy weekend. He had planned to kill Elleck while Rocq was in Switzerland, only to discover that Elleck had gone sailing with friends and would not be back until Monday morning — and he had no idea where Elleck had gone sailing.
He had spent Sunday evening surveilling Elleck’s London home in Bishop’s Avenue, Hampstead, but Elleck had in fact remained on the boat Sunday night, and had driven straight to the office on Monday morning. It was now Wednesday morning; he hadn’t yet killed Elleck because he wanted to plan the killing of Rocq and leave as short as possible a time gap between the two killings. This evening, at about five o’clock, Rocq would be killed. Elleck was going to a City Livery dinner at Cutlers’ Hall; his chauffeur would be driving him home afterwards. Baenhaker knew the exact spot in the rhododendron bush opposite Elleck’s front door where he would be waiting, with the silenced Walther in his hand.
At exactly five to nine, he watched from the street corner where he was standing as Rocq’s metallic dark-grey Porsche turned into the entrance to the Lower Thames Street multistorey car park. He smiled to himself. A few minutes later he saw Rocq emerge, holding his neat briefcase in one hand, and with a mackintosh slung over his other arm. Baenhaker looked up at the sky; there were quite a few clouds. Maybe Rocq was right, he thought, maybe it would rain today.