Talal said with monumental hauteur, “We have checked this very carefully, Factor. Columbus was of Jewish descent His own religious preference is of no concern to us. A Jew is one with Jewish blood. Columbus was a Jew. Surely you cannot expect us to advance money for the support of an exposition in honor of a Jew, Factor Regan!”
It’s a joke, Regan thought. It has to be! The man has a great little sense of humor.
As mildly as he could manage it, Regan said, “There must be some mistake here, Your Excellency. I understand the political considerations involved, but I find it hard to accept the idea that Columbus-Columbus-”
‘Under the circumstances,“ the Emir Talal declared, ”It will hardly be possible for us to honor our pledge. King Feisal was not in full possession of the facts when he spoke with you. We trust you will understand.“
Nodding curtly, the Minister Plenipotentiary took his leave.
Regan stared after him, utterly aghast. Columbus a Jew? What kind of nonsense was that?
And half a billion dollars in bonds cancelled, just like that, poof! Where am I going to find another half a billion dollars, Regan wondered?
For the first time since he had embarked on this enterprise, he felt fear. Not uneasiness, not uncertainty, but fear-live, crawling fear.
SEVEN
Some hasty research work by members of Regan’s staff turned up the information, within an hour, that the legend of Christopher Columbus’ Hebraic ancestry was just that: a legend. It was part of the apocryphal ragbag of miscellaneous untruth and half-truth that had become attached to the Admiral of the Ocean Sea in the past five centuries-a speculative interlude in the work of a none too reliable biographer.
But none of that mattered. Regan could not very well put through a call to King Feisal in Jidda, telling him to reconsider, imploring him to accept the findings of historical science that Columbus and Columbus’ ancestors unto the tenth generation were good Catholics and no more Jewish than the Pope himself, or Mohammed.
Some chance. Feisal’s mind was made up-or had been made up for him-and that was that. The Emir Talal’s word had been final. There would be no purchase of bonds for the Fair by Saudi Arabia.
It was a body blow. Regan had been able to tolerate Chairman Ch’ien’s tale of Hoei-Shin’s voyage of 499, because he had not really expected much in the way of cash from the People’s Republic of China in the first place. But to have $500,000,000 practically in his grasp, only to lose it for the most preposterous of reasons-that hurt.
There was no way Regan could hide from the world the news of the cancellation. He had already announced the Saudi Arabian commitment; now, he would have to make public the change of heart. This he duly did-without specifying the reason for the switch. By two o’clock, the story was coming across the stock market tickers.
Regan braced himself and waited for Global Factors to drop another fistful of points. The stock was at 109. Stock market theorists, gravely tending their charts, had opined in yesterday’s oracles that 107 was a “resistance point” for Global stock. If it crossed 107 on high volume, heading downward, it might very well head down into the low 80’s before it stopped dropping.
‘Perhaps a syndicate can be organized to keep the price of the stock up,“ Hal Martinelli suggested, at the tense meeting in Fair headquarters that afternoon.
Regan shook his head. “Can’t do. The chief contributor to the syndicate would have to be me, and most of my capital is tied up in Global stock. In order to get cash to buy Global on the Exchange, I’d have to sell Global. Self-defeating.”
‘But if there’s a stock-market break-“ Lyle Henderson said ominously.
‘Then we’re fried,“ Regan finished for him. He paced the room, paused to peer out through the window at the falling snow, and opaqued the window with a savage poke of his index finger. He didn’t want to see the snow. He didn’t want to see anything, right now.
He was staring ruin right in the face.
If Global stock collapsed as a result of the Saudi cancellation, the whole stock market would collapse right along with it, because Global had been the market leader for years. A general crash would feed on itself; investors faced with margin calls would be forced to sell, new supplies of stock would be dumped on the market for sacrifices at any cost, stocks would go down and down and down without a bottom.
Regan had seen it all happen once before, in 1976. He hadn’t been personally involved, so he had simply watched the process from the outside, with a certain detachment and morbid fascination. After all, the present power of Global Factors had come about largely as a result of the reshuffle-ment following that economic collapse.
But this was different. He was right in the thick of it. He had started it, in fact.
If the market crashed and a general depression resulted, nonessential expenditures would be cut back pronto-meaning any commitments nations or corporations might have to build pavilions at the 1992 Columbian Exposition. Without exhibitors, there would be no Fair. If the Fair flopped, there would be no profits with which to pay off the bondholders, not even any assets to divide. The bondholders would lose their entire investments, or perhaps would recover as much as one mill on the dollar.
And the chief bondholder-to the tune of about four and a half billion dollars!-was Global Factors. Thanks to Regan’s high-pressure tactics, Global had invested in a billion and a half’s worth of bonds on its own account, and was also stuck for some three billion more in unsold bonds technically owned by Columbus Equities Corporation. If and when the Fair collapsed, Global Factors would suffer a grave wound, perhaps a mortal one. And then the jackals would move in on the stricken titan, eager for their slices of fat meat.
Regan had built a pyramid of corporations. The destinies of Global Factors and of the 1992 Columbian Exposition were inextricably interwoven by the bond issue. The failure of one component meant the collapse of the whole pyramid. And the Saudi pullout might very well have set that collapse in motion.
‘What are the quotations?“ Regan asked glumly.
‘Global’s being traded heavily,“ Martinelli reported. ”A block of thirty thousand just crossed the tape at 108VЈ.“
‘Not so bad,“ Henderson murmured. ”Only off half a dollar so far.“
‘There’s still forty minutes of trading time left,“ Martinelli said.
‘And three hours left on the Pacific Exchange,“ Regan added. ”Enough time for plenty to happen.“
Hypnotically drawn, Regan kept his eye on the ticker tape that was spelling out his own downfall. Global was suddenly the most active stock on the Exchange. He wondered what sort of pandemonium the Exchange floor had turned into. A block crossed the tape at 108%, then a small order at 108Vi, then a thousand shares at 108Vs. Sinking fast.
‘Will there really be a panic if it breaks through 107?“ Henderson asked, of no one in particular.
‘That’s what the theory says,“ Martinelli told him. ”If a stock breaks its resistance level, it seeks support at the next stop down. For Global, that’s around 83.“
‘Jesus,“ Henderson said.
Regan was silent. The switchboard was blazing with calls, but he was taking none of them. Perhaps the time called for dramatic action, but he felt suddenly paralyzed, numbed by the flow of events. No one can keep up the pressure all the time. Right now he was tired of fighting. He had fought his way to the top, had teetered there dizzily for a few months, had apparently over-reached himself, and now, it appeared, he was about to topple.
‘Eight hundred shares at 107%,“ Martinelli intoned.
Wasn’t there any bottom? Would the stock fall right through?
Regan wondered what would happen if it did. Say, if it closed at 80 tonight. Many men who had been millionaires yesterday would be back where they started, tonight. Those rash enough to have staked their Global stock as collateral for loans might be wiped out. Men Regan had appointed, who owed their wealth and therefore their loyalty to him, would no longer have that wealth-because of his foolhardiness. Would they still have their loyalty, then?