‘So there you have it, Mr Kesler. We’re involved in one of the biggest commercial opportunities in the world, drilling for oil in the North Sea off Scotland. Our company, Prospecta Oil, has the backing of a group of banks in America. We have been granted licenses from the British Government and we have the financing. But companies are made not by money, Mr Kesler, but by people — it’s as simple as that. We’re looking for a man who will work night and day to help put Prospecta Oil on the map, and we’ll pay the right man a top salary to do just that. If we offer you the position, you’ll be working in our London office under the immediate direction of our Managing Director, Mr Elliott.’
‘Where are the company headquarters?’
‘New York, but we have offices in Montreal, San Francisco, London, Aberdeen, Paris and Brussels.’
‘Is the company looking for oil anywhere else?’
‘Not at the moment,’ answered Silverman. ‘We’re sinking millions into the North Sea after B.P.’s successful strike, and the fields around us have so far had a one-in-five success ratio, which is very high in our business.’
‘When would you want the successful applicant to start?’
‘Some time in January, when he’s completed a government training course on management in oil,’ said Richard Elliott. The slim, sallow No. 2 sounded as if he was from Georgia. The government course was a typical Harvey Metcalfe touch — maximum credibility for minimum expense.
‘And the company apartment,’ said David, ‘where’s that?’
Cooper spoke:
‘You’ll have one of the company flats in the Barbican, a few hundred yards away from our London City office.’
David had no more questions — Silverman had covered everything and seemed to know exactly what he wanted.
Ten days later David received a telegram inviting him to join Silverman for lunch at the 21 Club in New York. When David arrived at the restaurant, he recognized a host of well-known faces at nearby tables and felt new confidence: his host obviously knew what he was about. Their table was in one of the small alcoves selected by businessmen who prefer their conversations to remain confidential.
Silverman was genial and relaxed. He stretched the conversation out a little, discussing irrelevancies, but finally, over a brandy, offered David the position in London. David was delighted: $25,000 a year, and the chance to be involved with a company which obviously had such an exciting future. He did not hesitate in agreeing to start his new appointment in London on January 1st.
David Kesler had never been to England before: how green the grass was, how narrow the roads, how closed in by hedges and fences were the houses! It felt like Toy Town after the vast highways and large automobiles of New York. The small flat in the Barbican was clean and impersonal and, as Mr Cooper had said, convenient for the office a few hundred yards away in Threadneedle Street.
Prospecta’s offices consisted of seven rooms on one floor of a large Victorian building; Silverman’s was the only office with a prestigious air about it. There was a tiny reception area, a telex room, two rooms for secretaries, a larger room for Mr Elliott and another small one for himself. It seemed very poky to David, but as Silverman was quick to point out, office rent in the City of London was $30 a square foot compared with $10 in New York.
Bernie Silverman’s secretary, Judith Lampson, ushered David through to the well-appointed office of the Chief Executive. Silverman sat in a large black swivel chair behind a massive desk, which made him look like a midget. By his side were positioned four telephones, three white and one red. David was later to learn that the important-looking red telephone was directly connected to a number in the States, but he never actually discovered to whom.
‘Good morning, Mr Silverman. Where would you like me to start?’
‘Bernie, please call me Bernie. Take a seat. Notice the change in the price of the company’s shares in the last few days?’
‘Oh, yes,’ enthused David. ‘Up a half to nearly $6. I suppose it’s because of our new bank backing and the other companies’ successful strikes?’
‘No,’ said Silverman in a low tone designed to give the impression that no one else must hear this part of the conversation, ‘the truth is that we’ve made a big strike ourselves, but we haven’t yet decided when to announce it. It’s all in this geologist’s report.’ He threw a smart, colorful document over his desk.
David whistled under his breath. ‘What are the company’s plans at the moment?’
‘We’ll announce the strike,’ said Silverman quietly, picking at his india rubber as he talked, ‘in about three weeks’ time, when we’re certain of the full extent and capacity of the hole. We want to make some plans for coping with the publicity and the sudden inflow of money. The shares will go through the roof, of course.’
‘The shares have already climbed steadily. Perhaps some people already know?’
‘I guess that’s right,’ said Silverman. ‘The trouble with that black stuff is once it comes out of the ground you can’t hide it.’ Silverman laughed.
‘Is there any harm in getting in on the act?’ asked David.
‘No, as long as it doesn’t harm the company in any way. Just let me know if anyone wants to invest. We don’t have the problems of inside information in England — none of the restrictive laws we have in America.’
‘How high do you think the shares will go?’
Silverman looked him straight in the eye and then said casually, ‘$20.’
Back in his own office, David carefully read the geologist’s report that Silverman had given him: it certainly looked as if Prospecta Oil had made a successful strike, but the extent of the find was not, as yet, entirely certain. When he had completed the report, he glanced at his watch and cursed. The geologist’s file had totally absorbed him. He threw the report into his briefcase and took a taxi to Paddington Station, only just making the 6.15 train. He was due in Oxford for dinner with an old classmate from Harvard.
On the train down to the university city he thought about Stephen Bradley, who had been a friend in his Harvard days and had generously helped David and other students in mathematics classes that year. Stephen, now a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College, was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant scholars of David’s generation. He had won the Kennedy Memorial Scholarship to Harvard and later in 1970 the Wister Prize for Mathematics, the most sought-after award in the mathematical faculty. Although in monetary terms this award was a derisory $80 and a medal, it was the reputation and job offers it brought with it that made the competition so keen. Stephen had won it with consummate ease and nobody was surprised when he was successful in his application for a Fellowship at Oxford. He was now in his third year of research at Magdalen. His papers on Boolean algebra appeared at short intervals in the Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, and it had just been announced that he had been elected to a Chair in Mathematics back at his alma mater, Harvard, to commence in the fall.
The 6.15 train from Paddington arrived in Oxford an hour later and the short taxi ride from the station down New College Lane brought him to Magdalen at 7.30. One of the College porters escorted David to Stephen’s rooms, which were spacious, ancient, and comfortably cluttered with books, cushions and prints. How unlike the antiseptic walls of Harvard, thought David. Stephen was there to greet him. He didn’t seem to have changed one iota. His suit seemed to hang off his tall, thin, ungainly body; no tailor would ever have employed him as a dummy. His heavy eyebrows protruded over his out-of-date round-rimmed spectacles, which he almost seemed to hide behind in his shyness. He ambled over to David and welcomed him, one minute an old man, the next younger than his thirty years. Stephen poured David a Jack Daniels and they settled down to chat. Although Stephen never looked upon David as a close friend at Harvard, he had enjoyed coaching him and always found him eager to learn; besides, he always welcomed an excuse to entertain Americans at Oxford.